


A Touch of Darkfic, Vol. IV

by VagrantWriter



Series: Reader Requests [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Daddy Issues, Dildos, Emotional Manipulation, Gangbang, Heke is his own warning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infantilism, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Humiliation, Rape Aftermath, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sex, Victim Blaming, Voyeurism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Another batch of twisted reader requests.Ch. 1 Calling: Ramsay remembers the first ReekCh. 2 Lighting: Ramsay is Azor Ahai rebornCh. 3 Monitoring: Ramsays gives Reek some aftercareCh. 4 Respecting: It's the end of the world and Ramsay feels fineCh. 5 (Un)Seeing: Ramsay toys with a recaptured ReekCh. 6 Serving: Theon serves some late night customersCh. 7 Rocking: Is Reek dreaming he's Theon or Theon dreaming he's Reek?Ch. 8 Entertaining: Ramsay comes to dinnerCh. 9 Pleasing: Roose has a fatherly chat with RobbCh. 10 Displeasing: Dinners are tense at the Stark-Bolton householdCh. 11 Running: Ramsay catches up to Theon and RobbCh. 12 Ringing: Ramsay teaches Reek to be presentCh. 13 Biding: Ramsay needs to make a decisionCh. 14 Creaking: Ramsay continues to be useful to TheonCh. 15 Envying: Ramsay's pets compete for their master's affectionCh. 16 Relighting: Reek contemplates inevitability
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Myranda, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Roose Bolton/Catelyn Tully Stark, Roose Bolton/Robb Stark
Series: Reader Requests [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/417202
Comments: 177
Kudos: 133





	1. Calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morgelyn-whoregelyn said:
> 
> _I'm absolutely fascinated with the relationship between Ramsay and Heke, how they may have influenced each other and the effects on Ramsay's life. So anything involving that in whatever permutation would be amazing, whether set at the time or through musing on memories later._
> 
> Hoo boy, maybe I shouldn't have led with this one. On the other hand, this is darkfic, so let us die like men!
> 
> **I'm not tagging certain spoilers for this one, but if you're concerned check the author's note at the bottom. This one contains some potential squick.**

Mother was sad again, which meant that Ramsay needed to be gone for a few hours. He could do that. He did it so often he had come to think of it as just one of his chores.

Where was Reek? Usually it wasn’t too difficult to find him. Just follow the stench. It never bothered Ramsay the way it seemed to bother others. He thought it was funny, more than anything. But he couldn’t smell Reek now, which meant he’d probably gone into the woods. To do whatever it was he did out there. Ramsay was never sure.

He picked his way across the fields towards the tree line, dragging a long stick behind him and occasionally whacking at the ground or a rock. Animals were fun to hit, but Mother had scolded him about that. And so he hit rocks instead. Pretended they were human heads, the heads of everyone who looked down on him and Mother and Reek.

The trees were thick and blocked out the sun as he made his way into the woods. In the branches, birds called. Leaves rustled. Somewhere farther off, a stream burbled. He walked along one of the deer trails, thinking about what it would be like to hunt a deer. To kill it. Of course, all the deer in these woods belonged to Lord Bolton. They were not for the smallfolk to touch. Even if Ramsay was Lord Bolton’s son, he was still lowborn, a bastard. It didn’t stop him imagining what it would be like to shoot a deer and watch it die, what its eyes would look like as the life drained out of them. If it would be anything like killing a dog or a cat. Dogs and cats didn’t run when they saw you, though. They didn’t give you a chase.

He walked along, whacking his stick against trees as he went. It made a _thwack_ , _thwack_ , _thwack_ sound, and so he wasn’t immediately aware that there was another sound, echoing from deeper into the woods. Low and rhythmic. It was only when he stopped to scratch at his arm that he heard it. _Thwick_ , _thwick_ , _thwick_.

“Reek?” He walked towards the noise.

It went _thwick_ , _thwick_ , _thwick_ , but there was another noise under even that. A sort of snuffling, grunting noise.

Ramsay pushed through the shrubs, ignoring the sharp thorns that tore at his clothes and hair. He wanted to know what was making that noise. It sounded like an injured animal.

The trees around him thinned, and Ramsay caught sight of movement. Something rising and falling with each _thwick_. An animal, he thought, until he caught the stench. The unmistakable strench of Reek. Was that him moving like that? Was he injured? Ramsay parted the thorny bush in front of him and saw.

It _was_ Reek. Even without the smell, Ramsay did not know many other men who wore flowers in their hair. Reek was on the ground, breeches down around his knees as he hunched over something, his hips thrusting and driving a _thwick_ sound from whatever that something was. A steady stream of panting rumbled from him, though the thing under him made no sound, and every so often he would let out groan.

Ramsay watched, mesmerized. The slow rise of Reek’s hips, snapping quickly back down. The something beneath him _thwicking_. And all around them, the birds singing and the leaves rustling. It seemed as natural as anything.

Finally, Reek shifted his weight, and Ramsay saw what the something was. It was a girl. Her name was Bessa, and she’d been missing from the village for several days. Her skin was gray. Her eyes were wide open and stared at Ramsay, unblinking. Reek thrust again and her head bounced against the ground, brown hair in tangles around her face.

“Reek?”

Reek’s head flew up, looking over his shoulder. Several flowers fell out of his crown. His eyes were as wide as Bessa’s as he stared back at Ramsay. “Ramsay…”

Ramsay stepped forward, into the open. “What are you doing?”

“I was…” Reek reached for his breeches. “I didn’t kill her, you know. I found her like this. Fell and broke her neck.”

“What are you doing to her?”

“She don’t mind. She’s dead.”

Ramsay hefted his stick in his hand. “Well if she’s already dead, what’s the fun?”

Reek stared at him.

“Isn’t it like finding a deer already dead in the woods?” Ramsay went on. “What’s the fun in that?”

Slowly, Reek’s lips turns upwards into a smile. He got up to his knees, and Ramsay saw that his prick was still hard. He also saw where Reek had hiked up Bessa’s skirt, and also that Reek seemed to be telling the truth—Bessa’s neck was at an odd angle, and the other side of her head was matted with blood.

“The fun is they can’t say no, m’lord,” Reek said.

Ramsay grinned. He liked it when Reek called him “m’lord.” Even if he wasn’t a lord, it made him feel like one. Like he was Lord Bolton’s son.

“I’m almost done here,” Reek went on, gesturing to Bessa. “If you want to wait fer me, I’ll be along quick-wise in no time.”

Ramsay squatted down. “Can I watch?”

Reek’s eyes went wide in shock again. “You want to watch, m’lord?”

Ramsay nodded. He didn’t give a reason and Reek didn’t ask for one.

“Alright, m’lord,” he answered, and turned his attention back to Bessa. “I don’t mind being watched. Not by you, at least.” He took himself in hand and lined himself back up with the opening between Bessa’s legs, which was as gray as the rest of her. “But you’ll let me know if anyone else comes close, right? Others might not be as understanding.”

Ramsay nodded, thrilled to be given this task. It was like he’d been let in on a secret. A grand secret.

“And mayhaps you’ll help me bury the bitch afterwards. Unless you’d like a turn with her yourself first, m’lord…m’lord…m’lord…”

Ramsay awoke to something pressing against him rhythmically. For a moment, he was only aware of the rocking of his body against the mattress and voice above him calling out softly, “M’lord?” Then he opened his eyes.

“Reek.” He turned his head to find it was Reek shaking him awake. But not the Reek from his memories. This Reek was small and weak and looked more like Bessa’s corpse than Reek…Heke. “You better have a good reason for waking me.”

Reek pulled back, a look of terror on his face. “I…sorry, m’lord. You were calling my name and I thought…” He looked down into his lap. Dim little thing. “You were calling for your Reek, and so answered.”

Ramsay sighed and slid a hand down his face. He’d never be able to get back to sleep now. And he’d been having such a lovely dream. But at the same time, his Reek was so sweet. He could be punished later. For now, he grabbed hold of Reek’s waist and pulled him close against his body. Reek squeaked in surprise but did not fight back. He was malleable like that. A warm, living corpse. Ramsay’s own little doll.

Ramsay buried his hair in Reek’s hair. It wasn’t the right smell. And there were no flowers.

“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you, Reek?”

“Of course,” Reek answered without any hesitation.

“Even die for me?”

“Of course.”

Ramsay snorted. “I wouldn’t ask it of you, you know.”

“M’lord?” Reek lifted his head, but Ramsay pressed down on it, forcing it back against his bare chest. And Reek allowed it.

“Hush, you little idiot,” Ramsay growled.

Reek did, and Ramsay listened to his creature’s heartbeat in the stillness of his early morning chamber. _His_ creature. _His_ Reek.

Maybe he’d plan a hunt today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular fic has necrophilia and maybe, kinda implied pedophilia, though obviously nothing explicit.


	2. Lighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davrosfan3 asked for a fill where: 
> 
> _Ramsay is the prince that was promised.......having to sacrifice Theon to forge a new light Bringer. I could see Theon driving himself onto the blade when Ramsay refuses to let go of him. He is his reek and he needs to protect his master even from himself. So Ramsay would be mighty enraged and want to tear apart the ice demons that have dragged his reek away_

_It wasn’t possible_ , Melisandre thought. The flames were never wrong, but they could be vague. _She_ could be wrong. Surely the Lord of Light wouldn’t send this man…this monster in a man’s skin to be His chosen one.

And yet she could not deny what she saw. That man—Ramsay Snow, Ramsay Bolton—raising a blazing sword over his head. A being of darkness, bathed in light, driving back the other creatures of darkness.

She contemplated the vision—guessing, second-guessing, praying to the Lord of Light to reveal His intentions of her—as she waited in her cell. Waited at last to be called before that horrid man. When the guards came, she went with them, filled with resolve. The men were frightened of her; she could feel it, and did not miss the way they avoided touching her. Even as a prisoner, she still walked in the Lord’s light.

Ramsay Bolton had taken up court in Winterfell’s great hall, fitting his new title as King in the North. The guards walked her in, maintaining their distance, their footsteps echoing off the ancient stones. Melisandre contemplated once again her vision, and the thing hidden in the crypts below their very feet.

As they drew near the monster himself, one of the guards bellowed, “The Red Woman, my lord, as you requested.”

Melisandre stepped forward of her on accord, while the guards stepped back. For his part, Ramsay did not flinch. If he had, she would have known straightaway that he was no Prince Who Was Promised. Instead he watched her approach with keen interest from his makeshift throne, his cheek leaned against one fist.

The “throne” was nothing but an old chair, beaten and weathered with age. And at the throne’s foot sat the creature she had first laid eyes upon at the Wall. The creature called Reek. He had king’s blood in his veins, but she was glad she had not sacrificed him to the Lord of Light. If her visions were right, he had a larger, much more important role to play.

He hugged his master’s leg as he knelt on the floor and would not meet her gaze. Ramsay, however, did, his eyes fierce and alive.

“The Red Bitch graces us with her presence at last.” He stood, and the creature called Reek tried to hold onto his leg, to no avail. Ramsay strode forward, down from the raised dais where he’d placed his throne. “I’ve heard interesting things about you.” He brushed his knuckles against a lock of hair falling over her shoulder. “Cuny as red as your hair?”

She did not flinch, though his touch revolted her. “I have a message for you,” she said evenly, “from the Lord of Light.”

Ramsay grinned. “Oh, is that right?”

“You are Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised.”

His expression did not change. He did not recognize the significance. “A prince? I rather like the sound of that. What do you think, Reek?”

“Yes, m’lord.” The creature called Reek crawled forward on hands and knees until he was at his master’s side.

“But prince is a bit of a step down,” Ramsay continued, absentmindedly running his hand through Reek’s hair. “You see, I’m already a king. King in the North, they call me.”

“R’hllor has chosen you,” Melisandre said, “to bring an end to the Long Night.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes. “You sound just like those twats on the Wall. The Long Night. The Others. White walkers. I hope you don’t intend to bore me this much while I’m fucking your red cunt.” He placed his hand against her cheek, then quickly withdrew it, his smug expression giving way to surprise.

Surprise and not a little bit of fear.

“The Lord of Light keeps me warm,” Melisandre said. “His warmth must be scolding to a creature of darkness such as yourself.”

Reek whimpered and hugged his master’s leg again.

Ramsay was frightened, she could tell, as any man would be who had first brushed against the unknown. He stared at his hand. There was no indication that he had been burned, and yet she knew he had felt R’hllor’s fire when he’d touched her skin.

“What is this…about a prince?” he asked.

She smiled. He had at least not disappointed her by folding in fear. “I received a vision in the flames.” She gestured to the sconces giving their meager light to the great hall. “There is an ancient sword called Lightbringer, hidden for generations, awaiting its rightful owner to take it up once again. Its rightful owner is you, Azor Ahai reborn, the Prince Who Was Promised.”

Ramsay eyed her skeptically. “And what do I do with this sword?”

“You will drive back the armies of night and darkness.”

Ramsay looked at his hand, then at her.

“You will find Lightbringer in the crypts below Winterfell, where Bran the Builder first hid it away. You need only have your men search to find the truth of my words.”

“Master…Master, please…” Reek whimpered.

Ramsay struck him with the back of his hand and turned to Melisandre. “Alright,” he said, some of his smugness returning. “We’ll see if your Lord of Light is right or not. In the meantime, would you prefer to be returned to your cell, or shall I have a proper room prepared for you…my lady?”

She quirked her lips. “Only as you see fit. The Lord of Light protects me wherever I go.”

***

The door to her room burst open with the noise of wood on stone, but Melisandre did not look up from the fire. Nor when footsteps came thundering in. Something metal clanged on the floor near her feet. She did not need to look to know it was Lightbringer.

“My men found it behind a walled-in tomb,” Ramsay bellowed. “How did you know it would be there?”

“The Lord of Light told me it was there.”

“You are a sorceress.”

“I am a vessel, nothing more.” Finally Melisandre looked away from the fire. Her eyes flicked to Ramsay. “As are you.” And then to Reek, who was huddled against the wall. “We all have our roles to play.”

Ramsay bent and picked up the sword. It was unremarkable in appearance, rusted and dull, though Melisandre could feel the power burning inside it. Not at all like the fake she’d given Stannis. Ramsay hefted it, examined it. “What am I supposed to do with it? I doubt I could cut meat with this.”

Melisandre’s lips quirked upwards. “It needs blood to awaken its true power.”

“That so?” Ramsay turned it over in his hand. “Plenty of that around here.”

“Not just any blood.”

Ramsay looked up.

“At first, Azor Ahai made a sacrifice of man’s blood, but it did not awaken the sword. It needed to be the blood of someone he cherished. So he called for his favorite horse and slit its throat. And again it did not awaken the sword. It needed to be dearer than that, the sacrifice. And so he called for his beloved wife, Nissa Nissa, and plunged it through her heart. And only then did the sword alight with R’hllor’s flame.”

Ramsay’s lip twisted. “I don’t have time for riddles, witch.”

“To awaken the sword, it must be fed with the blood of one you love.”

“One I love?” Ramsay snorted. “As if I…”

He trailed off and followed Melisandre’s gaze to Reek, still pressed against the wall.

Reek understood first. “It’s me, isn’t it?” He limped forward. “Master needs my blood to awaken the sword.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Reek,” Ramsay scoffed. “As if I’d—I don’t lov—the idea...” He spun on Melisandre. “Are you toying with me, you bitch? You should know, I don’t enjoy being toyed with.”

“I assure you.” She placed her hands on her lap. “I am terribly serious. The fate of the world, of every living man, woman, and child, depends on you taking up your mantle and driving back the dead.”

“This is beyond insane.” Ramsay tossed the sword to the floor again. “I refuse to play your game, witch.”

“Ramsay…” Reek inched forward, head held low. “I…I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Nobody cares what you _think_!” Ramsay snapped. “I have half a mind to drag this bitch out into the snow until she’s cold enough to rape, see if she still wants to play her games then.”

“I am telling the truth.” Melisandre retrieved the blade. The metal tingled against her skin, her god’s strength begging to be released. “I don’t pretend to know R’hollor’s will, but He has seen fit to make you His champion, Ramsay Bolton. If you do not do this, the world will be plunged into eternal night and winter.”

“Why should I give a fuck?” Ramsay spat, not in the least intimidated by her holding a sword within striking distance. “Let it be winter forever. I’m King in the North.”

“You will be king of a barren land, and the Others will add you as a subject to their growing kingdom of the dead.”

“I’m not killing Reek!” Ramsay barked. “We—we’ll go away together. I’d rather leave the whole gods-damned Seven Kingdoms to die than kill my Reek at the behest of your fucking Lord of Light.”

“Master…you can’t.” Reek had crept forward enough to place his hand on Ramsay’s arm. “Reek is…nothing. Reek means nothing.” He smiled. A sad little smile. “I would happily die to make you the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“No.” Ramsay grabbed Reek’s face, and for an instant, it almost looked to Melisandre as if they were lovers. True lovers. “No, I have the final say, Reek. Not you.”

“But—”

“Don’t talk back!” Ramsay shook Reek harshly. “It’s not your call. It’s not _her_ call. It’s not the gods-damned Old Gods’ or New Gods’ or whatever other fucking gods’ call. It’s mine! Do you understand? Mine! Just like _you’re_ mine!”

He abruptly released Reek and turned to Melisandre. For a moment, she though he meant to murder her. She stood tall, waiting for it, regretting only that she had failed R’hllor. But instead Ramsay just grabbed the sword from her hands and spun.

“Useless hunk of metal,” he grumbled.

Reek sidled up next to him. “What will you do with it, m’lord?”

“Melt it down. Turn it into something useful.” Ramsay once again turned it over in his hands, and Melisandre knew he could sense it. The same tingling she’d felt. Despite his words, he would not destroy it. “Maybe I can use it to start building my own Iron Throne.”

***

Despite Ramsay’s threats, he left Melisandre untouched the next day. And the day after. Meals were brought to her, but no guards were posted outside her room. They were too afraid of her. No one would stop her from simply walking out. Out of this room, out of this burnt-out castle. But her place was here, with Azor Ahai, guiding him to take up Lightbringer and fulfill his destiny. And so she stayed, and meditated over the flames.

There was a single window in her room, and on the fifth day, the flames told her to look out that window, to the north. There was a rider approaching the castle, and Melisandre already knew what news they would bring.

As she suspected, no one stopped her leaving her room or making her way to the great hall, just in time to see the rider being led in. The man was out of breath and shaking terribly as he was led towards Ramsay’s “throne.” Ramsay sat in his chair, Lightbringer propped up on one side, Reek kneeling on the other.

“My lord.” The rider bent down on one knee before them. “I bring grave news. The Wall has fallen.”

There was silence in the great hall. Only the flames roaring softly in their sconces.

“What’s this shit you’re feeding me?” Ramsay finally said with a scoff.

“It’s true, my lord. I saw it with my own eyes. There was a horn call—a terrible horn call, like the voice of winter itself. And the Wall came down.”

“What does that mean?” Ramsay demanded. “‘Came down’?”

“Just that, my lord. It collapsed. A big part of it, anyway. I…I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t wait for the dust to clear, my lord. I already knew what was on the other side. I saw it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The dead, my lord!” The rider pulled the cap from his head and began wringing it between his hands. “Corpses, walking around like you or me. Thousands of them. Led by riders on pale horses. They’re headed this way, my lord. They’re not but a few days behind me.”

Again, silence.

“What shall we do, my lord?” one of Ramsay’s men asked, the first to gain the confidence to do so.

With an aggravated sigh, Ramsay stood. “If this man is telling the truth,” he said, “then we’ll ride out to meet this enemy. How many thousands did you say?”

“I can’t say, my lord,” the rider said. “They stretched out as far as the eye could see from atop the Wall. A hundred thousand, at least.”

“A hundred thousand,” someone murmured.

There was uncertainty on Ramsay’s face now, as he paced back and forth on the dais. Reek remained kneeling by the throne, holding Lightbringer in his arms like a child.

Melisandre decided now was the time to make herself known. She strode out into the open. “My lord.” All eyes turned to her. Several men jumped back, their faces fearful. Ramsay’s eyes narrowed in on her. “If you wish to stand against the tide of this enemy, you _must_ take up Lightbringer.”

“This useless sword?” Ramsay snatched the blade from Reek’s grasp. “It’s been more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Because you have not given it the proper sacrifice yet.”

“I already told you—”

“Master.” Reek’s voice was quiet, but with a surety to it that Melisandre had thought impossible until this very moment. He stepped forward and took hold of the sword’s edge, guiding it towards his chest. Although the blade was dull, ribbons of blood dribbled from his hands where he grasped it. “I’m not afraid. Reek wants to serve his master.”

“Reek, what are—?”

Ramsay tried to jerk the sword away, but Reek held firm, with surprising strength. For the first time, Melisandre saw R’hllor’s light shining in him, in his ravaged body.

“Reek is worthless,” he said, “but if he can serve you in this way—if I can bring you into your destiny…”

“Of course you’re worthless, Reek,” Ramsay snarled. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about. Let go.”

Reek smiled serenely at him. “Forgive me, Master, but it needs to be this way.”

And with a jerk, he forced himself onto the sword.

It cut into his chest as easily as if it were parchment, and the second the blade tasted his heart, it erupted into flame. A chorus of cries—cries of shock, of awe, of dismay—rose from those gathered. Ramsay let out an inhuman wail as he yanked the flaming sword free and threw it to the ground.

Reek sagged, and Ramsay with him, gathering the twisted creature up in his arms. “Why?” he hissed. “Why would you—? You don’t have my permission to die, Reek. Do you hear me?”

But Reek did not answer. His blood was already pooling around the two of them.

Melisandre walked through the murmuring crowd and took the few steps up to the dais. She bent and retrieved Lightbringer, the Lord of Light finally shining in all His glory. “You are Azor Ahai,” she said, offering it to Ramsay.

Ramsay did not rise to take it, instead cradling Reek’s body to his own. His hand cupped so delicately around the dead man’s face as he rocked him like a sleeping child. “My Reek. My sweet Reek.”

“He gave his life so that you can bring the dawn back to this world,” Melisandre said. “Do not let his sacrifice be in vain.”

Ramsay lifted his eyes to her, and in that moment, she saw not a monster, but a man. Bathed in the blood of his lover.

Slowly, he laid Reek out on the stones. Pressed a kiss to his forehead. With one more murmured, “My sweet Reek,” he stood.

Melisandre again offered him the sword.

“Your fucking prophecy,” he said, but took it from her. “Fine. I’ll be your Prince Who Was Promised. I’ll take this sword and kill every last fucking dead man who took my Reek from me.”

He held it aloft. The flames roared, bathing the great hall in light and warmth.

“And I’ll start with you.”

It came as a shock. As a shortening of breath as she tried to draw in air, only to choke on blood. Her hands went to her throat, met with the cool metal of her ruby choker and the warmth of blood spilling from Ramsay’s swift sword stroke across her throat.

She fell, gasping, to the floor, where her blood mingled with Reek’s.

“Let’s go,” she heard Ramsay say from somewhere above her. “Let’s bring this fucking dawn.”

_I hope I served you well, my Lord_ , she thought as the final life seeped from her body.


	3. Monitoring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunflower asked: 
> 
> _What about one where Ramsay's just finished having his way with Theon, but instead of leaving like he always does, he sticks around out of curiosity to see what Theon does afterwards? Maybe this leads to some kind of fucked up aftercare?_

Damon pulled out and let Reek slump to the floor. “Man, my dick is raw,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants. “I’m done. What about you, Alyn? You want to go again?”

“Naw, I’m good,” Sour Alyn said with a nonchalant shrug. He’d already had Reek twice himself. “What about you, boss?”

Ramsay had been watching for the last twenty minutes or so, with his arms draped over the back of a fold-out chair. “Let’s call it a day,” he agreed. Standing, he let his cigarette fall from his mouth and crushed it beneath his shoe. Its ashes smeared against the bare concrete floor.

Reek huddled in on himself as the Boys stepped around him. Ramsay was the last one out, with one last glance in the far corner to make sure his “gift” was positioned well enough. He left the light on and closed the door behind him.

“I could go for a beer,” Damon announced, stretched out his arms. Of course, the tunnels under Bolton Manor hadn’t been built with a man his size in mind, and his knuckles scraped against the ceiling.

“Sounds about right,” Alyn agreed. “What do you say, Rams? Down to the Direwolf?”

Ramsay gave an overly dramatic sigh. “Sorry, boys. I have to go to my step-mother’s ‘baby shower.’”

Damon and Alyn’s faces contorted in distaste and commiseration.

“Is that what that stuffie was about?” Damon jerked his thumb towards the closed door. “I just thought you wanted to try something kinky that I just didn’t understand.”

“It’s a nanny cam, you dumb fuck,” Alyn said. “I guessed it right away. Not very subtle.” He swung his head towards Ramsay. “You better make sure there’s nothing recorded on it before you give it to your step-mum.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ramsay waved him off. “I’ll meet you later down at the Direwolf. Say hi to Dick if you see him, and tell him he’s welcome to come up and try Reek out if he wants. He just has to ask me first.”

Damon and Alyn headed for the concrete stairs that would take them out of the “Rat’s Maze,” as they’d taken to calling the tunnels. Some paranoid Bolton in the not-too-distant past had installed the twisting passages and all their dead ends, perhaps in preparation for a nuclear war or some other end-of-the-world scenario. The Boys used it as an alternate hunting ground, when the expansive Bolton Estate just wasn’t in the cards. It was always fun to mix it up, to set some poor sap loose in the Maze. The Boys would whoop and holler, and the way sound echoed off the walls always had their prey running as if the demons of hell were after them.

Even the sound of their footsteps was distorted as they made their way up the stairs. Ramsay watched them go, waited for the sound of the heavy vault door closing behind them, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

Reception down here was a bitch, but with Bluetooth he should be able to connect with the nanny cam in the other room. The thing was supposed to have a sixty-hour battery life. He opened the app and was pleased to see it was recording, the interior of the room showing up on his phone’s screen.

There was Reek, lying right where they’d left him.

Ramsay had always wondered what Reek _did_ when they were done with him. How he tried to tend his wounds. How long he cried for. And maybe buying the nanny cam for his step-mother’s baby shower had given him the proper opportunity to find out. After all, he had to test his gift out before he gave it to the bitch, right?

He leaned against the wall, feeling cold concrete against his back.

The image was pretty crisp. He could make out the fold-out chair, the single light bulb dangling from its chain on the ceiling, and Reek, every scar on his back visible in clear detail. The only real complaint was that it was all in black and white, and so the blood really just looked like dark smears on the floor. It could be tar if Ramsay didn’t know better.

And he did know better.

He watched the screen for a minute. Two. And felt his jaw tighten.

The damn camera was broken, just showing him this one, unmoving picture. The specs had said it was real-time footage, but all it showed him the still image of Reek lying there. Worse, there was no audio. Just the low-pitched humming of the camera itself.

He gave it five minutes, but the image never changed over. The audio never kicked in. He smacked the phone, as if that would get it to work. Obviously it didn’t. With a frustrated growl, he closed and reopened the app. Every moment he had to waste getting this worthless thing to work was robbing him of seeing his Reek’s reaction.

Had he set it up wrong? Maybe it was defective? Or maybe it was just an expensive and useless piece of shit.

After another fruitless five minutes, he decided he was going to pay the gadget store another visit and use the clerk who’d sold him this piece of shit for his next hunt. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Fine, he’d just use his own eyes. He preferred the idea that Reek wouldn’t even know he was watching, but it couldn’t be helped. Not this time.

He kicked open the door. The loud clang echoed off the walls, and inside the bare room, Reek flinched. Other than that brief jerk, it was apparent that Reek really _hadn’t_ moved in the ten or so minutes since the Boys had left him. He was _right_ where Damon had dropped him.

Ramsay marched over to him. “Reek.” He knelt down. “What are you doing?”

Reek looked like a dead fish, with his eyes wide and staring at the wall. He didn’t look at Ramsay at all. “Waiting for you to return, sir,” he murmured. “Good Reek. Loyal Reek.”

Ramsay sighed in frustration. “Did we fuck you into catatonia, Reek?”

Reek’s wide, glassy eyes blinked as he tried to remember what that word meant. “Reek is good, sir,” he answered at last.

Ramsay grabbed Reek’s hair and lifted his head. Reek allowed it without any resistance, not even a sound. His face was a mess of dried tears, snot, and cum. But it was all dry. No fresh tears at all.

“Does it hurt, Reek?”

“Hurts.” Reek’s throat bobbed.

“You’re not crying.”

“I…” A shiver rippled through his thin body. “My eyes are too dry, sir.”

“Are you just going to lie there?”

Reek’s chest rose and fell. “What…should I do, sir?”

Ramsay drummed his fingers against Reek’s skull, then finally released him and stood. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

There was another room not far from this one that acted as a supply closet of sorts. Mostly this was where the Boys cleaned their boots after a hunt, where the blood could be washed down the drain in the middle of the room. Ramsay grabbed some rags and filled a small bucket with water from the faucet.

Reek had no moved at all, as Ramsay knew he wouldn’t. He set the bucket and rags down and then knelt and gathered Reek into his arms. Reek was easy to manipulate; he allowed himself to be moved this way and that, like a limp dummy. Ramsay cradled his head in his lap, wetted one of the rags, and began mopping at Reek’s face.

The crust was stubborn, and Ramsay had to scrub vigorously to get it off. Reek whimpered and occasionally flinched, but mostly he kept his big eyes trained on Ramsay, watching him with an intensity that Ramsay almost found unnerving.

“You’re disgusting,” Ramsay muttered as he worked. “Letting them take you like that. Did you enjoy it, Reek?”

“They weren’t you…” Reek said.

Ramsay huffed. That was probably the best answer Reek could have given.

He scrubbed until Reek’s face was bright pink, and then he dropped the dirty rag. It plopped on the ground, and he reached for the next one. “I need to clean your filthy hole,” he said, and without any further warning, flipped Reek over onto his back. That elicited a surprised squeak, and Ramsay dragged the cloth down the length of Reek’s back, to his ass.

The Boys had been rough. Ramsay made a note to call Doc Qyburn after he was done here. He didn’t _think_ Reek would need surgery, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Ramsay had seen how these sorts of…injuries could turn fatal if left unattended for long enough.

Keeping that in mind, he tried to be gentle as he wiped away the crusted blood and sweat and seed and shit and piss. Reek cried out anyway. Tiny little mewling noises that had Ramsay’s prick stirring again. He restrained himself, however, and finished cleaning away the worst of the filth and let the second soiled rag join the other on the ground.

Then he flipped Reek back over. There were fresh tears in his eyes now, which meant the little shit had been lying earlier.

“Better?” Ramsay asked.

“Y-yes, sir,” Reek whimpered. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes were big and wet.

Looking down at him, feeling the trembling body in his arms, Ramsay was overcome with a sudden swell of affection. He shook his head. Manipulative little cunt.

“Don’t move,” he snarled and laid Reek’s head gently on the ground. Again he stood, kicking away the dirty rags and bucket and tromping over to the corner of the room, where his baby shower gift to Walda had been watching the whole thing. He’d need to erase the footage, of course. Nobody could see this.

The camera was hidden in the left eye of a teddy bear. One of those disgusting plush animals with wide eyes and dimpled smiles. Ramsay picked it up, held it punishingly tight in his hands, as if he could throttle it.

Fuck his father. Fuck fat step-mother. And fuck her brat.

Fuck this stupid nanny cam, too.

In the other corner, Reek had started to cry in earnest. Ramsay turned. Despite his order to not move, Reek had rolled over onto his side and pulled his legs up in a fetal position. His face was a contorted mess, his mouth an open chasm from which hiccupping sobs erupted. Fresh tears and snot ran down the face Ramsay has just recently cleaned.

Ramsay came back over to him. “There, there, Reek,” he said in his softest voice. He knelt down again, aware of how filthy his pants were. He would need to change them before the baby shower or face the wrath of his father. For now, he ignored it as he gathered Reek into his lap again.

Reek was like a stiff, shriveled corpse, limbs curled up tight against his body. Ramsay gently pried one arm loose and tucked the teddy bear in, watched Reek’s confused face.

“There,” he cooed. “Isn’t that nice and soft?”

“Yes,” Reek whimpered. He hugged the plushie to his chest.

“Is it nice to hold?”

Reek sniffled and pulled it up under his chin. “Yes.”

“It’s supposed to be a gift for my baby brother.” Ramsay brushed his hand through Reek’s filthy, matted hair. “But now that you’ve touched it, and I can’t give it to him.”

“I—I’m sorry!” Reek cried and tried to drop the toy.

Ramsay pushed it back into his grasp. “It would make me happy for you to have it, Reek.”

Reek looked uncertain for a moment, then slowly closed his arms around the bear again and hugged it. “Thank you, sir.”

Ramsay left him like that, clutching the stuffied like a child. He closed the door softly behind him, then reached for his phone again and pulled up the app. The camera didn’t show much, just the floor and occasionally a bit of Reek’s arm as he rocked back and forth, but at least now Ramsay knew the audio was working. He could hear Reek’s muffled sobs. They played like a sweet lullaby to his ears as he made his way back up to the surface world above.


	4. Respecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violentgoth requested: 
> 
> _How about 14 y/o Theon and mid 30s Ramsay during a zombie apocalypse? If you've seen TWD I'm thinking a dynamic similar to Negan/Carl. With as much torture & porn as you're comfortable with _
> 
> I've never actually seen a single episode of The Walking Dead, and I only know of the characters through popular osmosis, so don't expect anything at all show-accurate.
> 
> This one contains unambiguous but non-graphic sexual abuse of a child/teenager by an adult.

Ramsay used his boot to lift the kid’s chin. Eyes the size of ping-pong balls looked up at him through rough bangs. He was a pretty little thing. True, he was covered in dirt and grit, but it was a veneer. It hadn’t been on him long enough to _become_ part of him.

“Haven’t been on your own very long, have you?” Ramsay asked.

The kid swallowed. Ramsay felt the slight bob of his throat against his boot.

“You certainly didn’t survive these past few years on your own,” Ramsay went on when he didn’t get a response. “So…what? Did the others in your group get fed up with you? Kick you out?”

The kid managed a tiny nod, and Ramsay released his boot. The kid sagged onto his hands and knees, coughing into the dirt. The Boys chuckled and ribbed each other.

“What’d you do to get kicked out?” Ramsay sank down into a squat, resting his forearms on his knees. “Get tired of sharing? Try to take something that wasn’t yours, maybe? Some food? A girl?”

The kid looked around the ring of Boys surrounding him. “I…I broke the rules,” he said. “I deserved to be kicked out.” He said it, but he didn’t really believe it. Ramsay could hear it in his voice.

“It’s alright, darling,” Ramsay said. “My Boys won’t judge you. What’s your name?”

“Theon.”

What a stupid fucking name.

“Well, Theon,” Ramsay said, holding out his hand, “there’s always a place for you at the Dreadfort.”

***

The Jeep rolled past the barbed-wired, chain-link fence. Ramsay watched his new “charge” watching out the window. Watched as Theon’s ping-pong eyes took in the camp. The barren, mud-spattered yards. The small cluster of buildings.

“ _This_ is where you live?” Theon asked. In a _tone_.

Little shit.

“Hey, it’s not much, but it’s home,” Ramsay said, plastering on his widest grin. He had to welcome their newest member with enthusiasm, after all. “And it’s more than you’ll find wandering out on the road.”

Unable to argue, Theon glanced away.

There were times when Ramsay thought maybe he shouldn’t have killed Roose. His father had had a practicality to him that Ramsay hadn’t really appreciated until the crops had started dying and the food stores had started to run low. Still, the old man had gotten on Ramsay’s nerves, and he’d needed to go.

The final straw had come during one of Roose’s lectures, taking stripes off of Ramsay’s back, all the while delivering some empty words about respect and responsibility. And so…Ramsay had killed him. Wrapped his hands around the old man’s throat and squeezed until he felt the cartilage give. Even in his last minutes, Roose had had the audacity to look _disappointed_. But Ramsay had no regrets.

It was for the better anyway. Despite his father’s insistence that he valued “competency,” the fact that so many had died after Ramsay had taken control proved that he’d really just been harboring weakness. Ramsay had rebuilt the Dreadfort. Made it into something better. Something stronger.

And when the walkers attacked, _then_ they were glad for Ramsay’s leadership. 

The Jeep ground to a halt and Theon tried to open the passenger door. Only for the handle to click. “Do you really think child locks are necessary?” he asked in a huff and tried opening the door again, even though he clearly _knew_ it was locked.

Ramsay reached across the console and smacked his hand. Hard enough to draw a sharp yelp from the kid.

“What the fuck?”

Ramsay slapped him across the face. “ _Respect_ is the name of the game here, Theon,” he said, pointing his finger in the kid’s face. “Respect those who provide for you. Respect those who protect you. Respect those above you. Understand?”

Theon stared at him.

Ramsay drew back his hand for another slap, and Theon threw his hands up to protect his face. “Yes! I understand!”

Ramsay let his hand fall to his side. “Good.”

***

Reek had been living at the Dreadfort—taking advantage of Ramsay’s hospitality—for a full week before he tried to run for the first time.

Needless to say, he didn’t get far beyond the fence before the Boys tracked him down. They had roughed him up a little by the time Ramsay joined them, but nothing too bad. They knew Ramsay reserved the right to punish escapees.

They had him down in the dirt, pinned on his stomach. His lip had been split and was dribbling blood down his chin as he lifted his head.

Ramsay looked down at him. “Where did you think you were going to go, Reek?”

“Theon,” he spat. Strings of bloody saliva flew from his mouth. “My name is Theon.”

He probably thought he looked fierce, glowering up like that. But really he just looked like a pouty brat. Ramsay felt the blood in his veins burning as he looked down at that pouty little brat. Burning with anger and excitement. It roiled in his gut, and his prick stirred at the prospect of taming this little shit. Teaching him the meaning of respect.

So Ramsay brought his boot up and smashed it into Reek’s face.

The kid flopped over like a landed fish.

Ramsay hunched over and grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. The trickle of blood from his mouth was now a gushing river. Ramsay knew right away that he’d broken the kid’s nose. Probably knocked a few of his teeth loose.

“Do you want to repeat that last thing you just said?” he said sweetly.

Reek’s eyes were unfocused, in a daze. He’d told Ramsay—intimated to him, when he’d been more wide-eyed and trusting, just a week ago—that he was no stranger to being hit, by his father, by his brothers. But there was a certain shock that set in the first time you met real, unfettered violence. And Reek was there now.

Ramsay tightened his grip in Reek’s hair and shook. “I said, do you want to repeat what you said your name was?”

Reek’s mouth gaped open, again like a landed fish. Blood covered his teeth, making him appear toothless in the early evening twilight. “Reek?”

“There, that’s good.” Ramsay patted his cheek. His palm came away smeared with blood. It would draw the walkers if they stayed out too long. “Now, do you want to come home?”

Reek’s eyes flickered up to his, but the fight was gone from them. For now at least. He had to know he wouldn’t get very far. Even if Ramsay was willing to let him go. The walkers would tear him apart. They wouldn’t be satisfied with just a broken nose and a few lost teeth. Not like Ramsay was.

“Then let’s go home,” Ramsay said.

***

Reek tried to run again. This time by stealing one of their trucks. Smarter, but this attempt ended even quicker. Damon caught him trying to hardwire the Jeep and hauled him out by the scruff of his neck.

“I hope you realize,” Ramsay said, once he was alone in his private cabin with the boy, “that punishing you hurts me more than it hurts you. And that’s why I’m doing it this way.” He finished wrapping the length of barbed wire around his knuckles. The teeth bit in deep, sawing through his calloused skin to draw blood. Blood that ran down his wrist and arm as he turned and stalked towards Reek, huddled in the corner. “You disappoint me, Reek.”

He slammed his fist into Reek’s shoulder. Felt the satisfying rip of clothing as it caught on the barbed wire, and the flash of skin torn open underneath. Heard the satisfying sound of Reek’s scream. The boy had learned how to react to violence.

Reek tried to cover his face. But Ramsay wasn’t going to allow it. He smashed his fist against the exposed side of Reek’s head, sending the boy sprawling to the dirt floor. “I feed you and clothe you!” Ramsay roared jubilantly. “I put a roof over your head! And how do you repay me!?”

Reek curled into a tight ball as Ramsay hit him again and again. Blood dripped from his closed fist, and he didn’t even know which was his and which was Reek’s.

“Please!” Reek cried out, after a particularly brutal blow that left long, bleeding scratch marks across his back. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” Ramsay sank down. He was always having to lower himself to deal with Reek. “Because you need to be protected.”

“Protected!?” Reek lifted his head, an incredulous expression on his face. He had ended up losing two teeth from the boot to the face, and his nose had never properly healed. Maybe he thought Ramsay wouldn’t hit him in the face again.

He was wrong.

Reek’s head snapped to the side. Ramsay thought maybe he’d felt something snap, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Reek brought a trembling hand to his face, prodded where Ramsay had punched him, and then quickly pressed his palm against his cheek to stem the bleeding. It ran through his fingers anyway, and Ramsay wondered if he’d torn all the way through the skin.

“Yes, protected,” Ramsay said, admiring his knuckle. “From your own mistakes.”

Reek didn’t say anything.

“You see, I know the truth about you. You’re not a bad boy, Reek. You’re just a misguided young man. A misguided young man with no respect for authority.” He clenched and unclenched his fist. Oh yes, the bite of the wire was wonderful. “You need someone with patience to teach you.”

Reek didn’t say anything.

“You’re old group didn’t have that sort of patience,” Ramsay continued. “But I do. I have all the patience in the world. You know, I think of myself as a sort of father to you, Reek.”

Reek’s eyes flashed to him. There it was. A flicker of his old bratty defiance. “Do you think of yourself as my father when you’re fucking me?”

“Especially then.”

Ramsay raised his fist again, and was satisfied enough when Reek flinched. The flame of his defiance snuffed out like a match in a wind.

“You’ve made mistakes in the past, Reek,” Ramsay said, letting his hand fall. “I’m just trying to keep you from repeating those mistakes. For your own good.”

Reek tried to press himself flat against the wall, whimpered as he continued to bleed through his fingers.

“So? Have you learned your lesson, Reek?”

“Yes!” Reek said. “Yes, please!”

“I trust I won’t have to teach it to you again.”

“N-no,” Reek whimpered.

“Good.” Ramsay smiled and opened his arms. “Then come here and give your old pops a hug.”


	5. (Un)Seeing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azhiel said: 
> 
> _Would you be interested in exploring the immediate aftermath of that excellent scenario you wrote about[re-captured Theon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323159/chapters/57220585)? Recently blinded Reek having to learn to navigate the world without sight, and Ramsay enjoys touching him and freaking him out bc Reek can’t see him coming anymore. All the cruel games Ramsay would play on him._
> 
> Ab-so-lute-ly.

Something brushed against his left shoulder.

He jerked back and smacked into something on the right.

The world had become a maze of walls that closed in on him. He hadn’t thought the world could be so very small and so impassably large at the same time. A wall of darkness where anything could be waiting to lunge out at him.

“Well, Reek?” _That_ voice called out to him from the darkness. “Was it worth it?”

Unable to move forward, or anywhere, Reek sank down to the ground and threw his arms over his head. “Please, Master, please.”

Something struck him from behind. Something that sent him sprawling onto his stomach. The stones cold and hard under his hands and knees.

“What did I say about that word?”

Reek scrambled, threw up a hand to ward off another blow. “Sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Are you?” The voice was nearer than he’d thought, and in front of him now. “Are you sorry for carrying off my bride? For murdering poor Myranda? For _leaving me_?”

A hand snarled in his hair, and Reek yelped. The yanking tugged at his scalp, and the too-tight skin over his ruined eyes. The pain was always there. Even since Master had taken a burning poker…

“Are you sorry!?” Master barked, so loud it felt like taking a burning poker to his eardrums now.

Reek shuddered. He wanted to cry. But Master had burned the tears out of him.

Was he sorry?

“I’m sorry I betrayed you, Master,” he whimpered.

The hand tugged harder at his hair, and his skin. “You’re sorry you _betrayed_ me?”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Yes, and what of my bride? Are you sorry you helped her escape?”

Reek’s chin quivered. He couldn’t lie to his master. He couldn’t. And so he said nothing.

“Fine,” Ramsay snarled. “I’ll _make_ you sorry.”

Then Reek was being pulled to his feet by his hair. He cried, but allowed himself to be dragged forward, feet stumbling over uneven stone. Where to? He had no way of knowing.

He had spent years in these halls, navigating these passages, following and being followed by Robb Stark. But those years belonged to someone else. The man who had killed Myranda and helped Lady Sansa escape. Reek was not that man. Reek was no man at all. And the halls of Winterfell were so different, now that everything was dark.

His bare feet hit against a raised stone, and he stumbled. Ramsay pulled him along, allowing him to neither fall nor right himself. “Clumsy creature,” he muttered. “How worthless and clumsy you are, Reek.”

“Master,” Reek sniffled. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“You can’t _what_?”

“I can’t keep—” He tripped again. “ _Please_.”

Suddenly, the floor fell out beneath his feet. His arms swung around, trying to find _anything_. But there _was_ nothing. Just a void. All around him. Even his master’s hand was gone. And for a horrifying moment, Reek knew he would be trapped here, in this nothingness, forever. Alone and in the dark.

Then his backside hit against something hard and sharp that sent pressure lacing up his spine. Yes, pressure was the right word. Because it happened so quickly that he wasn’t even aware of it as pain. Not until the next blow came, this time to his back. He spun, hitting his head, then his arms, when he brought them up to cushion his fall.

_Stairs_ , he realized after the fourth or fifth blow. _You’ve fallen down stairs before_.

But not like this. Not in the dark.

He slid the last few stairs until the ground leveled out, and there he lay, body bruised and pulsing. The pain started to set in then. Ever knock of his body against the stone steps.

“You really are clumsy!” Ramsay’s voice echoed down to him.

Reek trembled. His head was still spinning. And the world was still dark. His breath rattled in his chest.

“You’re so accident-prone.”

Footsteps on the stairs.

Reek laid his hands against the stone. They were solid, and cool. On the floor, he knew where he was, where he belonged. If he could just lie here forever, that would be wonderful.

“What are we going to do with you?”

Reek breathed out. “Master.”

“Hmm?”

The footsteps were closer, but approaching slower now.

“Master, I don’t know where I’m going anymore.”

One final footstep, and then nothing. He felt his master’s presence above him.

“You need to show me.” Reek pressed his cheek into the stone, and even though it tugged at the burned skin of his temple, he luxuriated in the solidness of it. “Wherever you put me, Master, I’ll stay there. I promise. Until you put me somewhere else.”

Silence.

In his mind’s eye, he could see Ramsay looking down at him. He didn’t know what expression his master might be wearing—disgust, amusement, indifference—but it hardly mattered. He’d never been good at reading his master’s face anyway, even when he’d had his eyes.

Finally, his master decided. “Very well.”

The hand grabbed his hair and hauled him up again. It hurt. Of course it hurt. But Reek didn’t fight it.

His legs trembled as Ramsay pulled him forward. Where were they going? It didn’t matter. He was going where Ramsay wanted him to go. It was as simple as that.

Space stretched out before them—a hallway? A room? Reek didn’t know.

Eventually, Ramsay stopped and released his hold on Reek’s hair. Reek tilted his head and strained his ears—he heard the dripping of water, the slamming of a metal door somewhere farther away. The smell of damp and mold was familiar. Ah, he knew where they were now. The dungeons below Winterfell lacked that distinct coppery tint he’d grown so used to in the Dreadfort, but the dampness was unmistakable.

Reek gasped when hands reached out of the darkness and grabbed hold of him and lifted him off his feet. It was instinct that made him kick out. Only instinct. His foot connected with flesh. A voice that was not his master’s answered, “Little shit!”

“Now, now, Reek,” Ramsay’s voice said. “You said you would go wherever I put you.”

The hands slammed him down onto something solid—rough and wooden. Then they began tying his wrists and ankles with leather straps. How many of _them_ were there? He heard their breathing, felt the heat of their bodies. They bound him tight, so that he could hardly wriggle around at all.

“Reek, you’re making a fuss,” his master’s voice said, near again. But down by his bound feet.

Something cold brushed against his left sole, and he jerked.

Voices around him laughed.

“Don’t worry,” Ramsay said, and the cold thing left. “I’m going to fix you so you don’t go running off anymore. It’s not safe, with you being so accident-prone.”

“Master,” Reek said, trying to lift his head. As if it would help him. There was nothing to _see_. “Master, please.”

“What!?” his master bellowed. “Did I tell you!? About that _word_!?”

But Reek couldn’t control the words coming out of his mouth. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please.”

“Looks like I’m going to have fix your mouth next.”

Reek felt movement he couldn’t see, down by his feet. Something whooshed through the air. Like the swinging of a sword. Or a hammer. Then something cracked. A wet, fleshy sort of crack. His left ankle twitched.

Only then did the pain register, and Reek screamed.


	6. Serving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tea_Queen_2112 said: 
> 
> _Hope you don't mind me putting a little idea forwards. Modern au where Theon owns a small restaurant where Ramsay's gang likes to go from time to time. They're the last customers of the night and Theon's the only one in the kitchen._
> 
> I don't mind at all. ;)

The bell over the door dinged and Theon sighed. “Sorry!” he called as he made his way to the register. He came out to find a group of six. All of them young men about his age. “We’re closing in half an hour.”

“That’s fine,” one of the young men said. Theon was pretty sure he recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name at the moment. “We’ll be quick.”

Theon very much doubted that. Even if all six of them managed to order _and_ eat in half an hour, it would still leave a hell of a mess and only drag out closing up—washing all their dishes, wiping down the table, not the mention he’d need to re-mop the floors, which he’d done just a few minutes ago. He hated nights when he had to close up, especially by himself. Regular pain in the ass.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “but the kitchen is closed for the night.”

“Are you sure?” The young man Theon thought he recognized leaned over the counter, a sort of smarmy grin on his face. “Are you _sure_ you can’t make an exception for your most valued customer?”

Theon frowned.

The young man’s eyes crinkled. “You don’t recognize the son of Roose Bolton?”

Theon stood up straight as a board. Oh.

Oh shit.

The young man leaned in closer. “So? Think you can fit us in?”

Theon swallowed. Fuck his father for giving him this shift. He wasn’t supposed to be the one dealing with Balon’s “business partners.”

“Right this way,” he said with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

As he led them to the largest table, he tried to remember his father’s instructions. _“If you ever have to deal with any of Bolton’s men, just make them happy. Don’t try anything smart, boy. Don’t try to negotiate with them. You leave all that stuff to me. Just give them a good time and keep your goddamn mouth shut, do you hear me?”_

He seated the six and handed out menus. “Can I get you started with some drinks?” he asked.

“Round of beer to start,” Bolton’s son, who Theon took to be the leader, said.

“Coming right up.”

Theon turned and rushed to the back room. But instead of grabbing the drinks, he went to the bathroom. Bent over the sink and stared into the mirror.

His face looked pale, almost green from the fluorescent lighting overhead. His bangs were damp with sweat from working in the kitchen all day, and his apron was spattered with stains. It had been a long day, and this was the last thing he needed right now.

His mind was sluggish as he tried to plan what to do. Should he call his father? No, he quickly dismissed that. Besides, it wasn’t Bolton himself. Just his son, and presumably his friends. They were just here to enjoy the perks Bolton’s “business partnership” allowed. Theon just needed to make sure they were happy. He’d never been very good with the whole customer service thing—but then again, who among the Greyjoys was?—but he’d been known to turn on the charm when needed.

He straightened up. “You can do this, Theon,” he said, slicking back his hair and straightening his shoulders. It did a little bit to improve his appearance. Out in the dining room, the rowdy chatter told him his customers were growing impatient. “You’ve got this.”

He’d treat Bolton’s son like a regular king.

“Would you like to hear today’s specials?” he asked, plastering on his best smile as he brought out the tray laden with ice-cold beer bottles from the fridge.

“Depends,” one of the other young men asked, a hulking blond. “Are _you_ one of the specials?”

Theon turned in confusion, but the leader—Bolton Jr., Theon had taken to thinking of him as—coughed and drew his attention back. “That would be lovely.” His eyes crinkled again.

Theon forced his smile wider. “Yes, sir. Our fish of the day is grilled halibut or blackened cod. We also have mussels served with a tomato wine sauce.”

“My well, that does sound good,” Bolton Jr. said. His eyes were unnervingly trained on Theon. “Why don’t you give us a minute to think about it?”

“Of course. Can I interest you in any appetizers in the meantime?”

“What about you?” one of the other men said. “Are you on the menu?”

Theon jumped when he felt a hand give his ass a squeeze. He whirled around, eyes wide, to see the bald-headed man among the group give him an unapologetic wink. Theon stared at him, not knowing what to do. Asha said it wasn’t uncommon, that some customers let their hands wander. He’d never really believed her; it had never happened to him. He always imagined that if it _did_ happen, he’d turn around and punch the lights out of whoever had tried it, customer or no.

But here he was, being shamelessly groped in his family’s restaurant. And he was the only one on duty. And instead of feeling angry, he felt…frightened.

“Crab cakes.”

He whirled around again.

“We’ll take an order of crab cakes,” Bolton Jr. said.

Theon swallowed.

The smarmy smile took on a distinctly sinister twinge. “Are you going to make me repeat myself again?”

“No,” Theon said quickly, snapping back to himself. “Crab cakes. Right. I’ll be right back with your order.”

He hurried off. The sound of mocking laughter trailed after him.

In the kitchen, he found that his hands were shaking as he fired up the stove. He’d had it turned off in anticipation of closing. It would take a few minutes to heat up. He leaned against the wall, and realized it wasn’t just his hands that were shaking. His whole body was. He just hadn’t been aware of it because his whole body was numb.

_I should call Dad._

No, absolutely not! He dismissed that errant thought.

_I should call Asha._

No, even worse!

“Calm down,” he murmured to himself, rubbing his face. “It was just a hand. It’ll be fine. You can do this. You’ve got this.”

He’d fried enough crab cakes that he worked practically on autopilot. He’d been helping out at the family restaurant since he was fourteen years old, cooking, waiting, bussing tables. He could do this. Take their orders and then make himself scarce in the kitchen while they ate. Easy-peasy.

He finished the cakes and arranged them prettily on a platter and then paused to take in a few deep breaths.

Fine. It was fine.

He put on his smile and headed out.

He felt their eyes on him the minute he came in, and did his best not to meet any of their gazes. “Have you decided what you’d like to order tonight?” he said cheerily as he set the platter in the middle of the table.

He jolted when he felt a strong hand grab his wrist. He looked up into the face of Bolton Jr.

“Actually,” Bolton Jr. said, “we were thinking of _sharing_ a dish.”

Theon’s heart pounded against his sternum. He tried to jerk his hand free. “Please, sir, I need you to—”

“What’s wrong?” Bolton Jr. tightened his grip, and Theon gritted his teeth. “My father always says this place has the best customer service, but you’re being a little _unfriendly_ to me and my boys.” He stood, pulling Theon with him. “Should I tell my father I had a bad experience at your family’s restaurant?”

“No!” Theon gasped. “No, please. Wh-what do you want? I can get you anything.”

“I already told you what I want.”

On the other side of the table, the big blond guy had also stood, and with one sweep of his arm, knocked everything off the table—platter, plates, beer bottles, water glasses. All of it clattered to the floor, some of it with a _crack_ of shattering glass.

“I want to taste _you_.” Bolton Jr. wrenched Theon’s arm behind his back and slammed him onto the table, bent over. The others laughed, and Theon heard their chairs being pushed back as they stood as well.

“P-please!” Theon begged. The floor he’d just mopped a few minutes ago was slippery under his shoes as his legs kicked out. “I—I have the key to the register! You can take anything out of it! All of it, if you want!”

“That’s generous,” Bolton Jr. said, “considering your old man’s behind on his protection payment for the month. You can give us what he owes.”

Theon sobbed in relief. This was all a misunderstanding. They just wanted money. Balon would hate him for giving in to their demands, but at this point, he was really just looking forward to cleaning up the mess, closing up, and soaking in the tub at home.

“Right away,” he said. “Let me just…”

Hands gripped his hips. “But _that_ can wait. Right now I’m thinking the best you can pay off your _interest_ is to give me and my boys some proper hospitality.” From behind, a weight pressed his hips against the table. He felt the unmistakable bulge of the man’s arousal pressing into his backside.

The world fell out from beneath him as fear surged back in. Were they…? Were they really going to…?

A hand caressed his ass.

Tears prickled in his eyes. “No, please!” he begged, struggling in earnest now. It only served to bump the table. The sound of its wooden legs sliding across the tiled floor, like nails on a chalkboard.

“So horny you’ve got him humping the furniture!” one of the other men crowed.

Another hand slammed down on Theon’s head, pressing his cheek against the lacquered surface of the table. And another hand began fumbling at his belt.

So many hands.

“Leave the apron on,” Bolton Jr. said. “It’s kinda hot.”

“Please,” Theon whimpered. “Don’t do this. Please don’t.”

His black workpants slid down his legs. The bare flesh of his legs prickled in the cold. Freezing cold fingers dug in under the waistband of his boxers and yanked.

“Please.” He could barely hear his own voice now, and only knew he was speaking because he could hear the rumble of it from where his chest was pressed flat against the table. The wood under his cheek was wet, and he wondered if it was a spilled drink or something else. “Please.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I take the first bite,” Bolton Jr. said, leaning heavily over him, squashing the wind from his body with his weight. Cool fingers prodded at his hole, coating it with something slick and viscous, and Theon had the horrifying notion that it might be olive oil from the bar. They often served olive oil with bread to paying customers. Extra virgin. "Mmm," the voice above him moaned wetly into his ear. “I’m starving, and you look good enough to eat.”


	7. Rocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scar gave this prompt:
> 
> _after theon has escaped, and taken back his identity as theon, he still has moments where he slips back into being reek, and misses his master...for example sometimes he cries for him at night, and won’t respond to anyone who isn’t ramsay if they try to calm him down he doesn’t understand why his master isn’t there to hurt him and praise him anymore, and he feels unstable and lost without him_
> 
> Hope you don't mind some Reek stream of consciousness. It's a very confusing place.

It was like that time before, when he’d also been in a place he didn’t know and people he also didn’t know were calling him a name that wasn’t his.

He didn’t remember much about that time. It was like a bad, scary dream that left you shaking, even though you couldn’t say what it was about.

But this was real. And there were people chasing after him and calling him a name that wasn’t his. They were calling out, “Theon! Theon!” And he kept running.

Where was he? He’d woken up on a bed, and that was the worst thing. He shouldn’t be in a bed. Not by himself. There had been a man sitting on the other side of the room, and he’d said, “Oh, you’re awake, Prince Theon. Can I get you anything?” And also the entire room was rocking from side to side. And Reek didn’t know where he was.

So he’d run.

A long corridor made of wood—it should be stone, if he was home, with Master—stretched out before him. And the entire corridor rocked. And footsteps were behind him and hands were reaching out to grab him. It couldn’t be real. It had to be part of the nightmare.

“Master!” he screamed. Maybe Master would wake him, and if he did find himself in a bed then, it would be with Master by his side. So then he would know he was supposed to be there. “Master Ramsay!”

But Master didn’t answer.

The corridor rocked and one of the hands grabbed the back of his shirt. Then he was yanked back. Fighting at the hands that tried to hold him down.

“Theon!” Someone was grabbing his shoulders. Shaking him. But that wasn’t his name. “Theon, calm down! You’ll hurt yourself!”

“Not Th…not my name.” He lashed out, but his arms were weak.

He was pinned down. The wood was solid beneath him, but he could _feel_ the hallway moving all around him. Like it was alive. Unnatural. Not right. Concerned eyes stared into his. Eyes that stirred a memory. A frightening memory. A memory that meant more pain.

“Theon.” The voice was softer now, but the hands were still rough.

“Hurting me,” he squeaked out.

They were hurting him, but it wasn’t Master who was hurting him. Where _was_ Master? Where was Master Ramsay?

“I can’t let go of you until you agree to calm down,” the voice said. “Can you do that for me?”

Reek sniffled. It wasn’t Master. It wasn’t Master Ramsay giving him orders. But he was so tired. He didn’t know if he could keep fighting. So he nodded.

“Alright, let go of him,” the voice said, and all at once the hands pinning him released. Though it still felt like he was being pushed into the floor and held there. He tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy. An un-rough hand brushed over his forehead, and a concerned face hovered in front of his. “It’s alright, Theon. It was a nightmare. That’s all.”

He blinked. A tear slid from the corner of his eye.

A nightmare. That was right.

“Ramsay’s dead,” Yara said. “He can’t hurt you.”

“Can’t…hurt me.”

She misunderstood and smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Do you know where you are now?”

He nodded. Yes, he knew where he was. He was on Yara’s ship, heading back to the Iron Islands. That was why the floor kept moving under him. He’d forgotten about the ocean.

“Are you calmer now?”

He nodded again. His blood was still pounding, but the fear energy had left his body. What was left behind was a sort of dread, softer and rounder than fear. Heavier, too. It weighed on him, so that Yara had to help him sit up, and then to his feet.

She steadied him with a hand on his back. “Are you ready to go back to bed?”

He nodded. It was all he could do. His head was clearing, but he couldn’t quite seem to get a grasp on anything solid. It didn’t help that the world was literally turning under him, causing him to lurch from side to side as Yara led him back to his quarters. Her hand was steady on his shoulder, but he needed more. He needed someone to _tell_ him where to go, not ask him if he knew where he needed to go. He didn’t. He didn’t know anything.

An immense sensation of relief flooded through him when she said, “We’ll dismiss the guard.” Sometimes Yara _was_ good at knowing what he needed, even when he didn’t. He didn’t know anything, after all. She steered him towards his bed. “ _I’ll_ watch you the rest of the night.”

“You don’t need—”

“It’s no imposition,” she said, and he felt guilty because he hadn’t even considered that it might be an imposition to her. “Now, get into bed.”

That, at least, was a direct command, and he crawled into his bed. The sheets were still wet with sweat. He pulled them over himself and curled into a tight ball. Even here, he could feel the rolling of the ship. The ocean was uneasy tonight.

The floorboards creaked as Yara made her way to the other side of the room. He didn’t watch, but listened to her sit with a weary sigh. “Now,” she said, “try to get some rest.”

Another command.

Theon pressed his cheek to the pillow and closed and eyes and tried to imagine another body in bed next to him. Tried to conjure the weight of that body, the heat of it as it pulled him close. And the voice whispering into his ear, “Go to sleep, Reek. There’s a Reek. There’s a very good Reek.”


	8. Entertaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xtotel gave the following prompt:
> 
> _xtotel: starks inviting theon for a holiday dinner...........except he brings along his new boyfriend - ramsay bolton :3 theon has changed a lot since they started dating, how weird, isnt it (aka everyones uncomf EXCEPT for ramsay. Who’s having time of his life_
> 
> One half-dozen of uncomfortable Starks, coming right up!

A sleek black car pulled up along the curb, and the dogs went wild.

“Is that Theon’s car?” Arya asked from the den.

“Who else would it be?” Sansa asked back in a thoroughly snotty tone.

Arya turned in her chair and stuck her tongue out at her sister.

“Please, guys, I need you to behave tonight,” Robb implored them as he waded through a hallway full of dogs. “Don’t embarrass me in front of Theon and his boyfriend.”

Arya huffed, and Robb thought she might have rolled her eyes, but he was already around the corner and headed for the door. “Fine, I promise to be on my best behavior,” her voice followed after him.

Robb was halfway down the hall, amid a sea of furry beasts, when there came a loud rapping knock on the door, and his heart picked up. It had been so long since he’d seen Theon. They…hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Robb couldn’t even remember what they’d argued about, that summer when he’d last seen Theon. And then he’d had gone off to university and Theon had dropped off the face of planet and he’d heard nothing about his childhood friend since.

Or not. Because Theon had been the one to reach out to him recently, through texts. Their conversations had been brief, but he’d accepted Robb’s invitation with enthusiasm. Robb hoped that tonight might be his chance to patch things up between them.

He pushed Grey Wind down and opened the door.

To find someone he didn’t recognize standing there. Well, two people, really, but mostly the guy wearing Theon Greyjoy’s face. Along with skin-tight black leather pants and a sheer mesh top that exposed his bare chest, and the daddy harness underneath. Also his pierced nipples.

“Oh,” Robb said.

“Robb Stark?” the other man said, thrusting out a hand. He was dressed normally, in slacks and an unbuttoned blazer, sleeves rolled up this elbows. “So nice to finally meet you. Reek here has told me so much about you.”

Robb found himself taking the stranger’s hand, on instinct, and giving it a limp shake. “Um…Theon?”

“I go by Reek now,” Theon said, not making eye contact. His face was brilliantly red, and the see-through top allowed Robb to see the flush spread all the way down to his collar bone. “Th-this is Ramsay Bolton…my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Robb said hollowly. Ramsay was still pumping his hand enthusiastically, and only let go when Robb let his hand slide out of his grip. “What…um, what are you wearing?”

“Um…” Theon fiddled with the hem of the mess shirt.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had a dress code at Chez Stark,” Ramsay said, pushing his way past Robb and into the house. “Reek always told me you were the hoity-toity type, but…” He paused, hands on his hips, and looked around the entryway, letting out long, appreciative a whistle. “I guess he wasn’t lying. Hoity-toity indeed. Nice digs, Stark.”

“Um, thanks?”

At Ramsay’s entrance, the dogs worked themselves into another frenzy, barking and trying to jump up on him. Robb had to scramble in to restore order.

“Ghost, down! Lady, don’t bark! Shaggydog, leave it! _Leave it_!”

“That’s alright,” Ramsay laughed as Robb tried to wrangle them. “I’ve got dogs too. They sure are a handful. Reek!” he hollered. “Are you just going to stand out on the doorstep all night? Get in here.”

Theon looked like he wanted to bolt, but he stepped inside, and immediately the dogs were on him. Grey Wind, in particular, pounced up on him and licked his face, tail whipping back and forth in a mad rhythm. Which assuaged Robb’s worry a bit. It seemed Grey Wind remembered his old friend Theon, even if he was dressed in—Robb did a double-take—ass-less chaps?

For a second, Theon smiled and ruffled Grey Wind’s ears. And then Sansa decided to appear from around the corner.

“Theon! I’m so glad you could—oh!” Her hands flew to mouth in shock.

Her look of wide-eyed horror was mirrored on Theon’s face, and he quickly stood and crossed his arms over his chest, as if trying to cover himself.

“S-Sansa!” Robb jumped in. “You remember Theon, right? And this is his boyfriend, Ramsay.” He forced a smile and gestured to Ramsay, who approached Sansa with a too-wide grin on his face.

He took her hand and bent to brush his lips against her knuckles, like an old-fashioned gentleman or something. Sansa smiled, but her eyes shot to Robb with a clear _what-the-fuck?_ look.

“I’ve heard a lot about you as well,” Ramsay said. “Weren’t you friends with Jeyne Poole?”

“I…yes,” Sansa answered, and Robb didn’t miss the way she wiped the back of her hand on her skirt. “Do you know Jeyne?”

Ramsay’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Let’s, um…why don’t you two go make yourself comfortable in the den?” Robb suggested, to move things along. “Sansa, can you give me a hand with the dogs?” He had Grey Wind’s collar in one hand and Nymeria’s in the other.

Sansa nodded eagerly and went to grab the leashes from the hooks in the hall. She must have realized he wanted to have a few words with her in private. Ramsay wrapped his arm around Theon and headed for the den as if he knew exactly where it was located. Once Robb and Sansa were alone, Sansa hissed, “What the heck?”

“I don’t know,” Robb whispered back, hooking leashes to collars. “He showed up like that.”

“Mother’s going to have a heart attack!”

“I know, I know. Just…maybe you should give her a head’s up?” All six dogs were leashed now, and he wrapped their leads tightly in his hands. “I’ll go put these guys outside.”

He and the dogs made their way to the back door like they were one awkward, seven-headed, twenty-six-legged beast. He turned them all loose in the yard, then paused to catch his breath in the mudroom. His head was spinning and his heart was pounding and he had no idea what was going on. Why…why was Theon _dressed_ like that? Sure, he’d always had a flare for the flamboyant, but dressing like some sort of S&M stripper? Sansa was right. Cat was the going to have a heart attack.

Luckily, she was preparing dinner in the kitchen, so Sansa could hopefully prepare her before she saw him. In the meantime, there were other things to think about. Like the fact that Theon and Ramsay were waiting in the living room with…

Shit!

He raced through the house, but the damage was already done. Ramsay and Theon were seated on the living room sofa, so close their thighs were pressed together, chatting with Arya, Bran, and Rickon as if nothing were strange in the slightest. To their credits, both Arya and Bran also weren’t acting as if anything were strange. But Rickon’s eyes were practically bulging out of his head.

Robb ran up and grabbed Rickon by the shoulder and dragged him out of his chair.

“Hey!” Rickon protested as Robb pulled him down the hall.

“Rickon, I’ll give you twenty bucks to go to your room and not come out for the rest of the night.”

“What? Why? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, you’re fine,” Robb said. “But dinner tonight is for grownups, so I need you to just stay up in your room and play video games all night. Think you can do that?”

Rickon frowned and jutted out his lip. “Is it because Theon’s dressed like a hooker?”

“Where did you—? Never mind. Twenty bucks, and you never bring this up ever again. Deal?”

Rickon rolled his eyes. “Fine.” And with that, he tromped up the stairs, muttering to himself the whole time.

One problem solved. 

Robb trudged back to the living room. The night hadn’t even begun, and he was already worn out.

“Ah, Robb,” Ramsay’s voice called. “Are you going to be joining us?”

Robb glanced around the living room. To Arya, whose face was completely passive, then to Bran, who simply gave him a shrug in response. Robb forced another smile and took the seat Rickon had just vacated. He didn’t think he could stand to sit on the same couch as the two of them, especially with the way Ramsay kept his hand on Theon’s thigh.

“So…” Arya said. “How long have you two been together?” The picture of a perfect, polite daughter. The irony of it. Though she did flash Robb a quick, wicked grin that showed she was, perhaps, enjoying herself more than she should be.

“Oh, about two years now,” Ramsay answered, running his hand up Theon’s thigh, stopping just before it became inappropriate—well, over-the-line inappropriate—and then slid it back to his knee. “Isn’t that right, sweetums?”

Theon nodded but said nothing, eyes trained firmly in his lap.

“And what about you, Robb?” Ramsay smiled. “Back for break?”

“Um…yeah, just for the summer,” Robb answered, scratching uncomfortably at his arm. His whole body had suddenly started to itch.

“I hear you’re studying social work?”

“Urban planning and development, yeah.” His nails left long, pink marks across his forearm, and he forced himself to stop scratching. “What about you? What do you…do?”

“Me?” Ramsay sat back. “I work in security.”

“That must be interesting.”

“It is.” Ramsay smiled but didn’t volunteer anything else.

There was a drawn out moment of awkward silence.

“What about you, Theon?” Bran asked, sounding much more mature than his twelve years. “What do you do these days?”

“Reek,” Theon said without looking out.

“Hmm?”

“My name is Reek,” he mumbled again.

“Reek is not gainfully employed at the moment,” Ramsay said, tossing his arm over Theon’s shoulder, while his other hand continued to paw at Theon’s thigh. “He’s not been able to hold down a job since I’ve known him. Have you, Reek?”

Reek squirmed. “No.”

“Because having a job mean you have to have skills, doesn’t it? And you can’t do anything except suck my cock, can you?”

Robb felt the blood simmering in his veins, but it was Arya who sprang to her feet first. “What sort of way is that to talk about your boyfriend?” she growled. Her fists clenched. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Robb blinked in surprise. Arya had never liked Theon, always seemed to be annoyed by his presence. That she would be the first to stand up, even before him, spoke to something. Despite her earlier smiles, she knew something was wrong here.

Ramsay continued to smile, but his eyes no longer crinkled. “Oh, I was just having a bit of a go at him.” He ruffled Theon’s hair playfully. Or it might have seemed playful, if Theon didn’t wince. “This little fuck-up knows I love him. Don’t you, Reek?”

Theon nodded.

Arya stared him down with narrowed eyes. “I don’t want to hear you talk about him like that around me, understand?”

“Of course, of course, no offense meant.” Ramsay threw up his hands in a show of surrender, but Arya continued to watch him as she took her seat again. “Geez, Reek told me you lot were a bit uptight.”

“Please,” Theon murmured, speaking for himself for the first time tonight. “Please don’t fight.”

Ramsay _looked_ at him. His entire body went rigid and his eyes went dead, and for a moment, Robb was certain he was going to strike Theon. But instead he forced his smile back into place. “Of course, babe.” He clapped a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “We were just having a discussion, that’s all. No one’s fighting.” He spread his arms out. “We’re all having a good time.”

Silence followed that remark.

Robb swore that an entire minute passed where no one spoke. A full minute of awkward silence. Bran coughed. Theon shuffled in place on the couch, as if trying to get comfortable.

Thank the Gods Cat came in to save them all. Robb caught the very moment her eyes landed on Theon and his…attire. Her mouth drew into a thin, tight line. But to her credit—and Sansa’s, for warning her ahead of time—she didn’t say anything. “Well, hello, Theon,” she said. “It sure has been a while.”

Theon parted his lips, and Robb had a feeling the next word out of his mouth was going to be, “Reek.” But luckily Cat forged on ahead, ignoring him.

“And Ramsay Bolton. Fancy seeing you in my living room. My, how you’ve grown.”

Ramsay’s eyes flashed, but he grinned amicably as he stood to greet her. “Ah, I see you already know me.”

“Of course. I’m friends with your father. Perhaps you don’t remember me, but I remember you.” Cat’s eyes flashed too. “When you were just a little thing, toddling around. And now you’re all grown up. I’m sure your father must be very proud.”

The two stood facing each other. Not even a stranger who might have walked in with absolutely no context could have mistaken their smiles for friendliness. The tension radiated off of them like heat waves. Theon squeaked and tried to bury himself as deeply into the sofa as possible.

“Thank you for inviting me into your lovely home, Mrs. Stark,” Ramsay said, and he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Cat in a tight hug.

Robb tensed. He felt Arya and even Bran tense beside him.

“I am just so glad to be here with you and your family.” Ramsay gave her one last squeeze and stepped back.

Cat looked a little shaken, but hid it quickly, and hid it well. “My pleasure, Ramsay. As you know, Theon has been a guest at our house many, many times.” She smiled, and her eyes crinkled the way Ramsay’s did. It was…a little frightening, if Robb was being honest. “I just put dinner in the oven. It should be ready in about forty-five minutes or so. In the meantime, can I get you a drink? Some wine, perhaps?”

“That would be lovely,” Ramsay said.

“And Theon?” She craned her neck, but Theon wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“ _Reek_ doesn’t drink,” Ramsay said. “He’s trying to cut back. Aren’t you, Reek?”

Theon nodded without lifting his eyes.

“Just water. And a straw if you have any.” Ramsay’s eyes slid to Theon, a condescending smirk working its way onto his lips. “I’m afraid we left Reek’s sippy cup at home. He’s so clumsy, you know. Spills everywhere.”

Theon whimpered, and his face and chest grew even redder.

“Alright,” Cat said primly, ignoring the sippy cup comment. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” And with that, she turned and retreated back to the kitchen, while managing to not make it look like a retreat in the slightest.

Robb groaned. He was going to get a verbal lashing after dinner was over. Cat had never approved of Theon, had thought he was a bad influence on her son. And yeah, Theon had always been a bit on the crude side, but he’d never… Well, Ramsay had taken his seat on the sofa again and pulled Theon into his lap and was now playing with the piercings in his nipples. All while Theon squirmed and tried to hide his face in Ramsay’s chest.

 _What’s happened to you, Theon?_ Robb wondered.

“Well,” Ramsay spoke up, still idly playing with Theon’s piercings, “does anyone know any good party games we could play?”


	9. Pleasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll call this a conglomerate prompt from the Thramsay discord server. A scenario where Cat has remarried to Roose to form the world's most unholy version of the Brady Bunch. And Robb has major daddy issues.
> 
> Special warning for this one: Robb is 17/18, and Roose is...obviously much older.

“You may come in.”

Robb opened the door and stepped into the office. It had once been his father’s office, where Ned Stark had done taxes and any number of other adult minutiae he had never gotten around to teaching Robb before he’d died. Now, it belonged to his stepfather.

Roose Bolton sat at the grand mahogany desk, back turned to Robb. He didn’t look up from his work as Robb closed the door behind him.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” From the glee in Ramsay’s voice when he’d passed the message on, it wasn’t anything good.

“Hmm, yes.” Roose’s fingers continued to dance along the oversized calculator to his left, pausing just long enough to turn and jot the appropriate numbers down in the ledger to his right. “I saw your report card.”

“Oh.” Robb felt the blood leave his face.

“Then you know.” Still Roose did not look up. “A C-minus in economics? Do you suppose you’ll be accepted into any worthwhile school with those sorts of grades?”

“No, sir,” Robb answered.

“I had hoped you would not become complacent just because graduation is within reach.”

“No, sir.”

“But perhaps you’ll be content following in Ramsay’s footsteps.”

 _Never_ , Robb thought. _I will **never** be like Ramsay._

There was so much _contempt_ in Roose’s voice when he said his own son’s name. Some of it dribbled over onto Robb as well, even the _idea_ that he could turn out as much as a fuck-up as his stepbrother.

“I’ll try harder,” Robb said. He tried to keep his voice calm, but he knew Roose would hear the desperation in it. Would think even less of him for not being able to control himself. “I promise.”

“Don’t promise,” Roose said evenly. “ _Do_.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want to see you wasting time with your friends until you’ve managed to improve your grades.”

Robb clenched his teeth and bit back the urge to argue. His friends were all he had left since Jon had enlisted and Theon had started dating Robb’s stepbrother. “N-no, sir,” he answered. “I won’t. I’ll focus on my studies.”

“Good.” Roose’s fingers stopped moving. He set down his pen. “Now…” He turned the chair on its swivel, finally, _finally_ turning to address Robb. Elbows braced on the chair’s arms, fingers steepled together, face utterly impassive. “What are you going to do to atone, to me personally?”

The blood came rushing back to Robb’s head. He felt his cheeks heat up. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Roose inclined his head. “I asked what are you going to _do_?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Robb’s cheeks were warm and his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, but that did little to help. The problem was with his throat. He took a breath in through his nose and began the six paces to Roose’s desk. He couldn’t even keep his head up to see if Roose was watching him, and with what sort of expression.

There were no words at all. He made the six steps, and then sank down on the carpet, bracing his hands on Roose’s knees. Roose parted his legs wider, the only indication at all that Robb was on the right track.

With shaking hands, Robb reached for his stepfather’s belt.

His mother would hate him if she found out he was doing this. That he had seduced her husband, made a cheater of him. He tried not to think about her as he unbuckled the fine leather belt. And undid the button. And unzipped the fly. He tried not to think about her or Ned, and how his father had never dressed as expensively as Roose nor kept his office so tidy, as he fished Roose’s cock out.

He spared one look up, to see if he was doing good. If this was right. Roose wasn’t smiling, but he gave a simple nod of his head. Robb opened his mouth wide and leaned in.

He thought maybe he was getting better at this. It was hard to tell, because Roose hardly gave any sign that he enjoyed it. But he continued to allow Robb to do this, and so Robb had to believe he was improving. Certainly from the first time, when he’d drooled and cried and generally made a mess of everything.

He wrapped his lips around the tip, tried to coax it into hardness. Not that Robb had sucked many cocks—or any at all, before this—but Roose’s dick seemed oddly…colder than it should. But maybe that was just because Roose’s face and demeanor were so icy, it was easy to imagine the rest of him being just as cold. In any event, it didn’t take _too_ much work to get him up, and Robb felt a distinct sense of pride feeling it harden between his lips. He could do this one thing right, at least.

Above him, Roose shifted his weight, and the mahogany chair creaked. Robb repositioned himself as well and then took the cock as far as he could. Admittedly, he couldn’t take it all the way to the root. Not quite. Not yet. It was something he needed to improve on. Something he could be better at. He just needed to work at it.

As it was, he took it until his throat spasmed, and then he had to pull back a little. If he gagged or, Gods forbid, emptied his stomach all over his stepfather’s lap, he’d just…it wasn’t an option. And so he went slowly, bobbing his head, minding the pressure of his lips and guarding his teeth as best he could. Drool dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, and he had to pull off to wipe it away before returning.

When he did, Roose’s hand brushed his hair. Not rough. Not at all. The opposite. As if he might draw it back at any moment, if Robb disappointed him again. Robb renewed his efforts, listening for the slight hitching of Roose’s breath to let him know when he was doing good.

“You are quite eager.”

Robb paused. Roose seldom talked during…well, _during_.

“You are a good learner, Robb.” The hand in his hair stroked gently. “That’s more than I can say for Ramsay.”

There was still contempt there, in Ramsay’s name, but this time Robb felt a swell of smug satisfaction. _I’m nothing like Ramsay_ , he thought, and to show it, he impaled his throat on Roose’s cock, taking it deeper. His throat spasmed, but he closed his eyes and willed it to calm down. _No, I can do this. I can control myself._

Above him, Roose groaned. It was such a small noise. Maybe nobody else would have noticed it for what it was. A sound of pleasure.

Robb’s heart picked up. He continued to work, fucking his mouth with Roose’s dick, until his throat was open and hot and the few breaths he managed to take in through his nose burned. Did it hurt? Was it uncomfortable? He didn’t have space in his mind to worry about that. Just on the flesh sliding in and out of his mouth, and Roose’s breathing.

It felt like this had been going on just short of forever when Roose’s thighs tensed, and Robb knew he was getting close. The hand in his hair tightened, pinning his head in place like an iron vise. Roose bucked his hips, forcing his cock ever farther down Robb’s throat, until Robb swore he was halfway to his guts. Robb gripped Roose’s knees and fought against his gag reflex with everything he had as warm, thick cum shot down his gullet. He swallowed it all. Because he was a good boy.

Roose spent himself and then released his hold on Robb’s hair with the smallest of satisfied sighs. Robb pulled back and drew in a deep breath. He wiped at his mouth, and only then realized the tears and snot running down his face. Gods, a mess. He must look a total mess. 

The hand came back, gentle again as it slid under his jaw and lifted his head. Robb found himself looking up into Roose’s face, the fatherly smile, and his heart swelled. “Good boy.”

Robb blinked, and more tears broke free of his lashes. “Yes, sir,” he sniffled.

“I trust we won’t have to have this talk again. About your grades, I mean.”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Roose patted his cheek. “Now, get yourself cleaned up. Your mother will be home soon, and she’ll be expecting her family to be put-together and happy to see her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She does a lot for this family, you mother,” Roose said, “so let us not burden her with these little problems, shall we? I see no reason to upset her.”

“No, sir,” Robb said, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The heaviness and dread that had been building ever since Ramsay had told him Roose wanted to speak with him had dissipated, leaving him feeling light and new. Roose was only disappointed because he expected so much from him, unlike Ramsay. Robb was lucky to be given so many chances to show he could do better, _be_ better. “Thank you, sir.”


	10. Displeasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xtotel asked for a sequel to the previous fill, [Pleasing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442651/chapters/60875506), so I figured I'd go ahead and fill that one first:
> 
> _The other side of the story, theon and ramsay :3c i dont even know what exactly just. this. set up, roose playing both ramsay and robb, comparing them to each other, theon heads over heels for the bastard and cat is just. living in the middle of it._

Catelyn Stark could admit she was many things—some of them not so flattering—but she was _not_ stupid. Vindictive, bitchy, occasionally even rash. But stupid? She hoped she hadn’t gotten to where she was today by being known as an idiot.

She _knew_ there was something amiss with her family.

Well, obviously. Ned’s death haunted them all, even three years later. But it was more than that.

She felt it keenly now as she looked around the dinner table. Everyone lost in their own little world as they picked at their food. The tension as thick as anything she had to deal with down at the DA’s office.

Sansa was on her phone, deliberately not looking up. She was still angry that Cat had forbidden her from seeing Joffrey Baratheon, and Cat suspected her daughter was seeing the boy behind her back anyway. Arya was conspicuously absent, as she was more often than not these days. She’d been acting out at school, resulting in two suspensions this school year so far. Bran was dejected from his doctor’s appointment earlier this afternoon, just one of many she had to be the one to take him to. And Rickon was a regular terror, both at home and at school. Earlier this week she’d had to attend a meeting with his teachers to suggest “more specialized education,” as they had called it.

She worried about all of them, of course, but her true concern tonight was Robb. How uncharacteristically quiet he was. Ned’s death had hit him hard, but she’d always been proud of how brave he’d been. How he’d stepped up in the days following the accident, helping her keep the family afloat. He’d taken on so much responsibility at a young age, but he’d never allowed himself to become bitter, resentful, sulking.

But something had changed. She’d noticed it not long after she and Roose had gotten married and blended their families together.

Her eyes slid past Robb—silent and eyes distant—to the young man sitting across from him. Ramsay Bolton. Her stepson.

She’d known what she was taking on when she’d married Roose. Roose cared for his biological son about as much as she cared for Jon Snow, and he’d been upfront with Ramsay’s behavioral issues from the start. He’d also bought Ramsay a flat downtown, but it didn’t stop Ramsay hanging around the house with the Greyjoy boy.

Or Reek as he’d insisted on being called these days.

Cat wondered if Robb’s mood had anything to do with his stepbrother and best friend’s relationship. He had been _very_ vocal in the beginning about how much he disapproved of it. He’d tried to keep them from dating as much as Cat tried to keep Sansa and Joffrey from dating, and with about as much success. Perhaps his melancholy was the result of giving in, realizing that Theon was more or less an adult who could make his own decisions.

Most nights when Ramsay joined them for dinner, Robb spent the meal glaring daggers at the other boy from across the table. But tonight he didn’t seem to be looking at anything. Ramsay was looking at him, though, a smug sort of grin on his face. Theon was looking down at his plate, and the pitiful proportions Ramsay had put there.

“Theon,” Cat said, “honey, you can help yourself to more if you want.”

“No, that’s fine,” Ramsay answered for him. He reached over and patted Theon’s stomach. “ _Reek’s_ watching his weight. Aren’t you, Reek?”

Theon nodded wordlessly. His entire face was sunken in. His presence at the dining table alone gave a new meaning to the phrase, “Skeleton at the banquet.”

Cat breathed in sharply through her nose but kept her lips locked. She looked to Robb for his reaction, but Robb hadn’t seemed to have heard at all. Not that long ago, he would have argued back, insisted that Theon could speak for himself and eat what he liked. Now…nothing.

“How is your job search going?” Roose asked, breaking the silence. This question he directed at Ramsay.

Ramsay snorted and jabbed at his food with his fork. “Fine,” he muttered.

“Have you even applied for anything this week?”

“Sure I have,” Ramsay grunted, not looking up. “Nobody’s hiring.”

“You mean nobody’s hiring high school dropouts,” Roose stated calmly.

Ramsay glared at his plate, his face turning a splotchy shade of red.

Cat and Ramsay didn’t get along—she doubted they would ever get along—but she felt compelled to say something in that moment. “You could always go to a technical school,” she offered.

“Don’t give the boy false hope,” Roose said, fork and knife poised like dual quills in his hands. “I know you mean well, dear, but we need to be _realistic_ about these things.” With delicate movements, he cut another slice from his chicken breast. “Perhaps you could consider following in Jon’s shoes and enlisting in the military. Although…I imagine you’d have to leave that creature of yours behind.” He eyed Theon with obvious distaste, and Theon’s face went bright red. “Unless they’ve relaxed their physical requirements quite a bit.”

Ramsay snorted again, but his face had not become any less splotchy. “Not joining the fucking military.”

After dealing with Arya, it was in Cat’s second nature of say, “Language,” when there was profanity at the table.

Ramsay scrunched up his nose.

“Ramsay,” Roose said levelly. He lifted the bit of meat, impaled on his fork, and let it hang midway to his mouth. “Apologize to your mother.”

Ramsay’s eyes were deadlocked on the plate in front of him. He wiggled in his seat, hands clasped between his thighs. “I’m sorry… _Mother_.” He ground his teeth together. “I’ll mind my language in the future.”

Roose gave a slight nod and finally plopped the chicken into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a long moment. “On second thought, I suppose they require an IQ test to enlist these days. So perhaps it would not be a good fit for you after all.”

Ramsay said nothing, but Cat could see his jaw working back and forth.

Roose set his knife and fork down and took a drink of his wine. “So, how was your day, Robb?”

Robb’s head snapped up at that. “Good, si…good,” he answered with an enthusiastic smile. “Very productive.” He turned to Cat. “The food is delicious, Mother.”

Cat blinked in surprise. “Thank you.”

“And how about you, Sansa?” Roose continued on. “How was your day?”

He managed to wrestle responses from the rest of the children, and dinner continued from that point on in punctuated bits of conversation.

When the last utensil had stopped moving and everyone leaned back from their plates, Robb, as usual, was the first to hop to his feet to clear the table. Normally, Cat appreciated the gesture, but tonight she stopped him. “That’s alright, sweetie,” she said as he reached for Roose’s plate first. “I’ll handle the dishes tonight.”

Robb stopped dead and stared at her as if she’d just announced she was going to try out for the Olympic swim team. “But, Mom, you cooked everything _and_ you’ve been working all day.”

“I’ll help your mother,” Roose said, giving Cat a knowing look. He was a sharp man, astute. It was the trait that had originally drawn her to him, after several years of widowhood. “Besides, don’t you have some _studying_ to do?”

Robb’s face went inexplicably pale. “Yes, sir,” he answered. Cat made a note to ask him what was going on later, but for now she allowed him to dismiss himself from the table along with his other siblings. Theon trailed closely behind Ramsay, hand pulling at the hem of Ramsay’s sweater like a child trying to get an adult’s attention. Cat couldn’t deny the disgust that welled up in her gut. True, she had never been fond of the Greyjoy boy, but surely he deserved better than what Ramsay offered him.

Roose stood and calmly began stacking plates.

“I wish you wouldn’t pit the boys against each other,” Cat said as she joined him.

“A little competition is healthy,” Roose said calmly. “It drives them both to be better.”

Cat gave him a stern look. “If we want to blend this family, we can’t be seen as playing favorites.”

Roose lifted his head and pinned her with a look of his own. It was strange. Whenever he gave her _that_ look, her blood froze in her veins and yet her heart beat faster, hotter. No man she’d ever known, not even Ned, had ever looked at her like that. Like he knew her inside and out, even the ugliness that lurked under the surface.

_As if you love your all children the same, Catelyn Stark_ , his look seemed to say. _You may pretend that you do, but I know better_. _We both know better. Your love is not as infinite as you pretend it is._

Cat met his gaze. She couldn’t refute the accusation, but she’d be damned if she was going to back down from it either.

There was a moment of electric silence between them, broken only by the clinking of plates as Roose continued clearing the table.

“Very well,” he said, turning his eyes to his work. “I will keep the comments…to a minimum.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly and collected the used utensils in her hands.

This was the way it was between them. Standoffs where neither of them truly won. There was a thrill to it, Cat had to admit. A piece of her soul had died with Ned in that accident, most assuredly, but at the same time…Ned had never _challenged_ her the way Roose did. He had never tangled with the ugliness inside of her, but rather would look away whenever it surfaced.

Roose gathered his stack of plates and came around the table, prying the utensils from her hand. “Let me take care of that,” he said. “I’ll clean these while you relax. You’ve had a busy day.”

She caught his insinuation. “Not too busy,” she said with a smile.

A flicker of a smile graced his lips as well. “Then perhaps I will see you upstairs after I have cleaned up.”

He arched an eyebrow, and Cat’s blood went hot and cold again. She shivered, despite herself, and a pleasant thrill stirred in her stomach. Funny how he could make her feel like a giddy teenager again, with just a look.

She left him to finish his work and made her way up to the room they shared on the second floor, heart pounding in anticipation. She loved Ned—always had, always would, bless his soul, bless his heart—but Roose knew what it _really_ meant to please a woman.


	11. Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: 
> 
> _Could you do a story where ramsay and his bastard boys kidnap throbb (up to you if theyre a couple) and force robb to watch them gangrape theon? can be au or canon._
> 
> I hope the prompt alone is enough of a warning, but just in case, this fic contains semi-graphic depictions of rape.

The van stopped moving and the door slid back on its rusted runner and then Robb was being pulled out by a rough hand. He couldn’t see anything through the burlap sack on his head, but he was surprised to find the ground soft under his feet. He could hear the chirping of birds and the rustling of trees, and long grass brushed his bound hands as he was led along.

Where had they brought him?

And Theon? Where was Theon?

The gag in his mouth kept him from calling out. It was completely soaked through with his own drool and chafed at the corners of his mouth. His wrists were bound with duct tape that pulled at the hairs on his arm. The air in the bag was stifling, and it was sheer force of will that he hadn’t passed out already. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself to, not until he knew that Theon was well.

There was laughing all around him. He didn’t know how many voices. He thought maybe there had been three or four men in the van, when they’d pulled up alongside him and Theon on the street. He hadn’t really had time to fight back before they’d tasered him and thrown a sack over his head and dragged him into their van. He thought he heard at least that many voices now, but it was possible there were more.

Why were they doing any of this? What did they want from him? He and Theon had just been walking down the street, holding hands… Gods, was this a hate crime?

The hand guiding him abruptly pushed him, and Robb fell onto his knees. Grass cushioned his blow, though it was partially wet and soaked through his jeans. As he struggled to get his bearings, a hand steadied his shoulder and ripped the sack from his head.

Harsh sunlight flooded his eyes, and he blinked against it. A bright blue sky, open above him. A field of overgrown wild grass stretching out to a wooded area in the distance. A group of rough-looking young man watching him intently—Robb counted them, six in total, plus whoever was standing behind him. And in the middle of them, gagged and bound in a similar style, was Theon, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Eon!” Robb screamed through his gag, only to be met with a cuff to the back of his head.

Whoever was standing behind him came around, black boots crushing grass in his wake. Robb looked up and saw a young man with dark hair. “Shut it, Stark,” he said. So, he obviously knew Robb, but Robb didn’t know him.

The young man reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, quite casually, as he sauntered over to Theon. The other young men backed up as he approached.

“Well, well, you gave me quite a chase.” The man sank down in front of him. “But _you_ of all people should know I _always_ catch my prey.” Theon flinched as the man leaned in close. “You didn’t really think you could get rid of me that easily, did you, _Reek_?”

Theon shook his head.

“That your new boy toy?” The man gestured with his cigarette to Robb. “Cute. Love the red hair.”

“Amsay…ease!”

“What was that?” The man reached out and yanked the gag down.

Theon sputtered a moment. “Ramsay, please. Let him go. He hasn’t done anything. It was me. It was all me.”

Ramsay? The ex Theon had mentioned when Robb had asked about the scars on his back? At the time, Robb hadn’t wanted to press, because obviously it was something sensitive that Theon didn’t want to talk about. But now he was thinking he _should_ have asked. Should have asked where Theon had been those months when nobody seemed to know where he was.

“You want your pound of flesh?” Theon continued. “Take it from me, but leave Robb out of this.”

With a flick of his wrist, Ramsay produced a lighter and lit his cigarette. He took a few puffs, coaxing the end to an embery life, before blowing a cloud of smoke into Theon’s face. Theon hacked and coughed.

“Alright,” Ramsay said, standing. “Since it looks like _my_ cock isn’t enough for you, we’ll see if my Boys can give you what you’re looking for.” He nodded to the men standing around Theon. “Show them a good time won’t you?”

“What? No, I—”

Theon didn’t get to protest anymore as they fell on him. Throwing him to the ground. Pinning him on his stomach. Ripping at his clothes. All cackling like hyenas. That’s what they were. Animals tearing into their prey.

“Eon!” Robb lurched forward, began crawling on his stomach. He wouldn’t let them hurt his childhood friend. Not when he’d just gotten him back. Not when they’d finally... He wouldn’t!

Ramsay strolled up lazily to him and pressed a boot to his shoulder, pressing hard. “Ut-ut-ut,” he tutted. “You just sit there and watch, sweetheart.” He knelt down and grabbed a fistful of Robb’s hair with his free hand, yanked his head up. “I want you to see how well your boyfriend—or whatever you think he is to you—takes cock. So…” A manic grin spread across his face. “Let’s watch.”

Theon was fighting back, but it was six against one, and his hands were bound behind his back. Still, he kicked and kicked until one of the bigger men, a hulking blond, sat on his back and pressed his face into the dirt. Theon’s muffled screams continued as they shimmied his jeans down his legs, exposing the swell of his ass, the scars on the backs of his thighs. Then the big blond guy began working on his own zipper. “I call dibs.”

Robb struggled anew against Ramsay’s boot, but he was not in a much better position than Theon when it came to fighting back. “On’ urt im,” he pleaded through his gag. If Ramsay would just _ungag_ him, maybe they could work something out. Whatever debt Theon might owe, whatever he’d done to piss Ramsay off so badly…they could work it out. There was no need for this. None of it.

“Quiet.” Ramsay nudged his chin with the tip of his boot. “Just enjoy the show, Stark.”

Robb had no such intention. Especially when the blond guy, prick now free, slid his meaty hands over Theon’s ass and spread his cheeks. Theon bucked against him, but of course it had no effect. Except to elicit another round of laughter from the “Boys.”

Robb rolled to the side, out from under Ramsay’s boot, and pushed himself up to his knees. With his arms tied behind his back, he was thrown off balance, but he willed his legs steady enough. He might even have gotten to his feet—and then what? He hadn’t thought that far ahead—but Ramsay was on him in an instant, slamming his fist in Robb’s face.

Not that Robb understood that right away. At least not until his vision had cleared and he saw Ramsay standing over him, flexing his knuckles. He was on the grass again, sprawled out. And the world was spinning.

“You okay over there, Rams?” one of the Boys asked—Robb couldn’t tell which one. “You need help?”

“Hardly,” Ramsay snorted. He crouched down, wrapped his free hand around Robb’s neck, and squeezed. Just enough to show he had the strength to squeeze harder. He forced Robb’s head up and aimed it at the direction of Theon and the Boys. “My Boys are going to fuck him,” he growled. “And you’re going to watch, Stark. Understand?”

Robb couldn’t move his head, couldn’t even close his eyes, as the blond guy repositioned himself, spread Theon open again, and thrust in. Theon _howled_ and his entire body _jerked_ against the hands holding him down and Robb’s eyes prickled with tears. _I’m sorry, Theon. I’m so sorry._

The other Boys laughed and goaded the big guy, who began pumping his hips in earnest, tearing shrieks from Theon’s throat. Robb’s vision blurred with tears, but he could still _hear_. Every pained cry cut at his heart. A very real and physical pain. Like being stabbed in the chest, over and over again.

Time moved in slow motion. Ramsay took another pull from his cigarette and held his breath for an interminable amount of time, then let it out in a long breath through his nose. The only real evidence that they were…further along in _this_ …was the way Theon’s screams became weaker and weaker to mark the passing of time.

When the big guy finally pulled out, he made a noise of disgust as he wiped himself off with Theon’s discarded pants. “Fucking mess you are, inside and out,” he laughed, “getting your shit all over me.” But then the next one was taking his place on Theon’s back. Forcing himself in without warning. Theon’s scream was hoarser this time, less ear-splitting, but his entire body jolted under the hands pinning him.

Now that the blond one was no longer holding his face down in the dirt, one of the others—a thin, bald man—grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. Theon’s face was a mess of dirt, tears, and snot, but the bald man didn’t seem to mind at all as he worked the fly of his pants down. “Don’t bite me now, Reek,” he hissed. “Wouldn’t want things to turn bad for your redheaded friend, now, would we?”

Robb’s heart twisted again as Theon sniffled and opened his mouth. The bald man shoved himself in with little preamble, muffling Theon’s cries while the other man pounded into him from behind.

“Obedient little slut, isn’t he?” Ramsay said, and paused to take another drag from his cigarette.

Robb’s throat was thick with saliva and drool. He felt himself choking on it as his throat closed tighter and tighter. Anger pounded in his veins, as if trying to get free as well. If he wasn’t bound, oh how he would make them regret even _thinking_ of putting their hands on Theon.

But he _was_ bound. And helpless to do anything but watch. And listen.

It went on and on, one after the other. Theon stopped fighting, stopped screaming, hanging there like a limp doll as they took their turns—some more than once. Occasionally one of them would force a pained grunt from him, but other than that, there was hardly any indication Theon was even still conscious.

Robb wondered if Theon’s mind was in there at all, or if it was somewhere far away. He hoped the latter. Wished his own mind could go there as well. But he was locked, watching and listening. It felt like a betrayal to watch, but it also felt like it would be a betrayal to look away.

Finally, when Ramsay’s cigarette was nothing but a stub of ash, he said, “Alright, I think he’s had enough.”

Instantly, the Boys released Theon, pulled out of him and released their holds. Theon flopped to the ground, chest heaving, eyes wide and unseeing. The duct tape around his wrists had come loose during it all, but he either didn’t have the strength or the will to even take advantage of it. There was blood on his thighs. Cum and dirt on his face and back. Fresh, pink bruises blossoming everywhere that hands had been too rough—his hips, his arms, his shoulders, his neck.

Ramsay flicked the butt into the grass and stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolled over to Theon’s limp form. “Did you get your fill of cock, Reek?”

Theon didn’t answer, just lay there.

“Hey, I asked you a question, slut!” Ramsay barked.

Theon flinched at that and curled in on himself. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he murmured.

Robb felt his stomach give out from under him.

“You really _did_ think you could get rid of me that easily, didn’t you?” Ramsay delivered a swift kick to Theon’s side that had him crying out in a wrecked and raw voice. “Are you sorry?”

“Yes!” Theon wailed. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“I doubt it.” Ramsay spat on him, then turned his gaze back to Robb. “But you will be.”

Theon’s eyes widened. “No, please.” He reached out with trembling hands and grabbed at the hem of Ramsay’s pant leg. “Robb didn’t do anything. Just let him go, please, please. I promise I’ll—I’ll never leave you again. I promise, just…please.”

Ramsay shook off his grasp easily. “Pathetic.” He strode back to Robb, grabbed him by the collar, and hoisted him to his feet. With a nimble flick of his fingers, he drew a knife from some hidden pocket. Robb’s heart beat even faster, pumping blood through his veins so hard, all he could hear was the pounding of it in his ears, and all he could see was red.

Ramsay grinned at him. “Really riled up, aren’t you?”

Robb lunged at him. No plan, no real thought in mind. It was like an animal had taken hold of him, and all he wanted to do was tear Ramsay’s throat out.

Of course, Ramsay stopped him easily with a hand in his hair, the knife jabbing up against the soft flesh under his jaw. Robb squirmed in Ramsay’s grasp, felt the threat of the blade, but only distantly.

“No!” Theon shrieked.

Ramsay chuckled. “Always so dramatic, Reek. I have every intention of letting your boyfriend go.”

He slashed out with his knife. Robb flinched. But instead of feeling the cold cut of a blade through his skin, his shoulders sagged. His arms felt light as they fell to his sides, free of their duct tape bonds.

Before Robb could even really register what had happened, Ramsay had given him a rough shove that sent him stumbling forward awkwardly. “Alright, Red, here’s the game.” Ramsay pointed with his knife towards the wooded area on the far side of the field. “We’re going to give you a fifteen-minute head start, and then we’re coming for you. Understand?”

Robb whirled and looked back at him. Judged the new distance between them. It was only three steps at the most. Three steps and he could…

Ramsay seemed to know what he was thinking and grinned. “You could try,” he said, brandishing his knife, “if you think you could get to me before _my_ Boys get to _you_.”

Robb stood frozen in place, blood pounding in his ears. Could he make it to Ramsay? Would he even be able to hurt him if he did? If he knew he could kill Ramsay, grab hold of his throat and squeeze until he stopped breathing, he’d take his chances. In a heartbeat. But…he was unarmed.

“Robb!”

Robb turned to Theon, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. He was covered in mud and grass, and other things, and his arms trembled from the effort of lifting himself.

“Please, just run.”

Across the distance separating them their eyes met.

_I can’t leave you._

_You have to._

Robb felt his heart breaking all over again, but Theon was right. Dead, he was worthless to them both. At least if he ran…at least then he stood a chance of doing some good. Finding help. His fists clenched and unclenched. His own teeth creaked from grinding them so hard. He tensed, coiled his legs.

“Well?” Ramsay prodded, as if he had any right to be impatient. This whole thing had passed in the time he’d taken to smoke a cigarette, but for Robb it had been much longer. And for Theon…Gods knew. “What’s it going to be, Red?”

Robb looked to Theon one last time, caught the slight nod of his head.

He took a long breath out and then took off for the trees, the long grass slapping against his thighs as he ran.

Behind him, the Boys whooped.

“Be sure to give us a good hunt!” Ramsay hollered after him.

“Run!” Theon screamed. “Run, and don’t let them catch you!”

And just like that, Robb felt his mind snap into place. Not somewhere far away, necessarily. But Ramsay and the Boys and Theon’s battered body lying in the grass…all of it faded into a hazy blur in his mind. There were only the trees in front of him, and only his legs carrying him to them.

_No_ , he thought, overcome with a sudden calmness and certainty. _They won’t catch me. I won’t let them._


	12. Ringing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PenelopeTower said: 
> 
> _I like the ones where Reek has to be “active participant”, he usually can just zone out/disassociate during sex but Ramsay makes him participate for once and it gets him all confused? Any kind of participation, like a game or just a hard-to-follow conversation or something...... ^.^_
> 
> Okay, this one is...
> 
> Look, I can't be held accountable for the things I write, okay? It's your fault for giving me free rein.

“Reek…Reek.”

There was a sharp crack, and pain blossomed across Reek’s face. He came back to himself and realized Ramsay was no longer pounding away inside of him. He wondered when that had happened. It didn’t _feel_ like his master had spent. 

He blinked and looked up into Ramsay’s face. Ramsay was still hovering over him, bearing down with all his weight. He was still inside, just not moving anymore. He didn’t look happy.

“I’m sorry, Reek,” he said, “was my lovemaking _boring_ you?”

Reek blinked again. “No, m’lord.”

“Oh? Then why is it you were _wandering_?”

Reek’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. He didn’t know what to say. His jaw felt numb.

“I see.” With an annoyed grunt, Ramsay shifted. Pulled back. Pulled out. He _hadn’t_ spent, so Reek was confused by this. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress. “You know, it hurts a man’s _feelings_ when his lover can’t be arsed to _show up_ for their lovemaking.”

“I…sorry, m’lord,” Reek muttered. The haziness of his mind was receding, and now he was frightened of how Ramsay would punish him for his negligence.

But Ramsay didn’t do anything. Just stood and dressed lazily into his breeches, still hard, and then…left. Left the room.

For a long, long time, Reek lay there, staring up the ceiling, waiting for his master to return and punish him. But the night dragged on, and his master never did return, and after some time, Reek curled up and fell asleep.

***

“Reek!”

Reek bolted awake to a room bathed in sunlight. And the door crashing against the wall as his master strode in, arms burdened.

“Sleeping until midday now, are we, Reek?” Ramsay tutted. “You really are ungrateful.”

“No.” Reek scrambled up. His body was sore, but he was used to that. “No, Reek, is very grateful, Master.”

Ramsay snorted and set his items down. There was a low, squat little stool, something that jingled whenever Ramsay moved, and—Reek’s heart pattered like a caged animal—a leather-knotted scourge. He knew its multi-pronged kiss well, and supposed he would be feeling it again soon. His punishment for disappointing his master last night.

Ramsay closed the door, then huffed over to the bed and drew the stool around to an empty spot on the floor, and Reek saw that the stool was equipped with a rather sizeable phallus. He also supposed that would be going inside of him, and felt another swell of dread.

“Since my cock seems to bore you so much,” Ramsay sneered, though there was genuine hurt beneath his mockery, “I thought we try something a little more engaging.” He nodded to the stool. “Your throne, Your Grace.”

Reek nodded and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. There was truly no point in resisting, was there? The sooner he got his punishment over with, the sooner he could leave it behind him.

His legs were weak as he stood, and nearly collapsed under him. He didn’t have that far to go, though, and he stumbled to the stool, leaning against it to regain his balance. Up close, the phallus was not so intimidating. It was polished and lacquered, like the rest of the stool, and not much larger than Ramsay’s cock. He was sore, but still open and loose from last night. He could handle it.

Not that he had any choice.

“Is that how you sit?” Ramsay chided.

Wincing, Reek turned himself around and, looking over his shoulder to make sure he was lining up properly, lowered himself onto the phallus. His hole burned as it was stretched, but he’d had worse. The worst of it was Ramsay became impatient and pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him down the rest of the way in one quick movement that drew a startled yelp from his throat.

He sat there, regaining his breath, while Ramsay looked on smugly. “Don’t you look so kingly, Your Grace?”

Reek didn’t know what to say, if he should deny his “kingly” status or if he should play along. So he said nothing.

Ramsay frowned and twisted his lips. “What? You don’t want to be a king?”

Reek bent his head. “Reek is no king.”

“No? What about a prince?”

Reek felt tears threaten, though he couldn’t say why. A memory, perhaps. A very bad memory. “Reek is nothing, m’lord.”

Ramsay made a pleased noise. He grabbed Reek’s face, squeezing his cheeks together and forcing his eyes up. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re nothing. And when you’re with me, you’re nowhere.”

“M’lord…”

“Where do you go, Reek? When we’re making love?”

Reek blinked. He didn’t understand the question.

Except, in a way, he did.

Ramsay’s face contorted in disgust. “If I wanted to share my bed with a corpse, I could easily arrange that.” He squeezed harder, pinching in the skin of Reek’s cheeks. “Are you a corpse, Reek?”

“No, m’lord,” Reek said awkwardly, his jaw held at an odd position.

“Are you certain? Because I could easily arrange that too.”

“No, m’lord, Reek is not a corpse.”

“Then show me.” Ramsay released Reek’s face with such force that his head snapped back. His body rocked, but the phallus held him in place. Ramsay grinned and turned to the bed, where he’d set the scourge and the other item, the thing that jingled. It jingled now as he unlooped it.

A leather collar, with perhaps a dozen bells sewn around the outside. They all tinkled in unison as he fastened the collar around Reek’s throat and buckled it tight.

“No,” he said, leering, “you’re not a king or prince. You’re a fool, aren’t you, Reek?”

Reek looked up at his master his confusion. The bells jingled with the movement of his neck.

“You’re going to fuck yourself on that cock,” Ramsay said, walking around, “and I want to hear those bells _ring_. Understand?” Reek tried to follow him with his eyes, but Ramsay passed out of his sight, somewhere behind him. “If I don’t hear them ringing…”

Reek jumped as something brushed against his back. Leather tendrils tickling at his skin. The scourge.

“Do you understand, Reek?”

“I…I think I do, m’lord,” Reek said, swallowing around his own throat. The collar pressed tight.

“Good. Then get working.”

Hesitantly, Reek lifted himself off the stool, feeling the phallus slide out. He held, poised with just the tip inside, and then lowered himself again. His thighs burned at the effort of it. Once he was fully seated again, he had to pause.

There was a snap, and stripes of pain laced up his bare back. The scourge did not cut as deeply as the whip, but the pain it left behind was hideous in its own right.

He screamed and jolted, but the phallus held him in place.

Ramsay, disembodied behind him, chuckled. “You’re going to have to go faster than that if you want those bells to ring.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Reek sobbed, and lifted himself again, fast enough to cause the bells on his collar to jingle. Then, not daring to pause for too long, he let himself fall back, taking it roughly up to the hilt. The motion drove the wind from his lungs, but also jingled the bells.

“Good,” Ramsay said. “Very good. Keep it up.”

So Reek did. With shaking legs, he lifted himself, clenched around the tip—although this was more reflex than anything deliberate on his part—and let himself fall again. The bells rattled on the way up, and again on the way down, with hardly a pause in between. Or at least not so much of a pause that Ramsay felt the need to use the scourge again. So Reek kept going.

Up, down. In, out. Building a rhythm with each rise and fall. A rhythm measured by the tinkling of his collar.

The aching of his legs burned dully, until he was hardly aware of it at all. Hardly aware of the hardness of the stool every time he came down, every time his skin slapped against its lacquered surface. Hardly aware of the stretch and pull of his insides as he fucked himself on the phallus. Those were all things that were happening to his body. And his body was somewhere far away.

He was nowhere. He was…

The scourge cracked, and he cried out as his skin erupted in fiery pain. Not a dull burning at all, but rather like someone had traced lines on his back with hot pokers.

He slumped forward, as far as he was able, breath coming hard. Why had his master…? Had he stopped moving? Had he not been jingling the bells? His knees shook from the effort. He was certain he’d been keeping his rhythm. He was certain he hadn’t stopped.

“The way you’re ringing those bells…it’s _boring_ me,” Ramsay explained. “Can’t you put a little _spirit_ into it, Reek?”

“M…m’lord?” Reek asked. His body was trembling.

“Here, I’ll set the pace for you.” Ramsay balanced the scourge’s handle in the crook of his elbow and began clapping his hands together. _Clap-clap-clap_. A much faster pace than Reek had been following. “Think you can do that? Or are you going to keep _boring_ me?”

Reek nodded numbly, because what else could he do?

“Alright then,” Ramsay said. “Focus.” He took the scourge in his hands and began tapping out the quick rhythm with his boot— _tap-tap-tap_.

Reek took a breath. He braced his arms against the edge of the stool between his spread-open legs, where his scar was on obscene display. Adjusted his hips for a better angle. And then began pumping with his thighs to rock himself in tempo with the _tap-tap-tap._

_Cling-cling-cling_ went the little bells as they bobbed with his movements.

It was hard work, like riding a horse, like bouncing up and down in a saddle. Only the saddle was also impaling him with every rocking thrust of his hips. Sweat began to bead on his brow. Soon he couldn’t even hear the sound of the bells over his own heavy breathing.

There was a snap. More tendrils of pain—the sort where you were uncertain if skin had even been split, but the lingering sensation was somehow wet nonetheless. Reek bucked against it and let out a long, desperate moan. He hadn’t stopped. Not for one second. He could hardly hear the bells, but he knew he was ringing them. Could feel the weight of them around his throat.

“You weren’t paying attention to the rhythm,” Ramsay chided. His boot was still going, but Reek realized he’d changed the pace while he hadn’t been paying attention.

Hadn’t been paying attention. That was the lesson he needed to learn.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Reek whimpered. “I’ll do better.”

“Then do better,” Ramsay said. “Now, follow along.”

It was a dual process now, focusing on the bells jingle in time with Ramsay’s tapping. And Ramsay changed his beat, speeding up, slowing down, adding an extra half-beat.

_Tap-tap-tap._

_Tap-ta-tap-tap._

_Tap-a-tap-a-tap-a._

Reek’s bells were an answering harmony to every beat. He was an instrument, and Ramsay the musician, playing a frantic song with Reek’s body as he fucked himself on the phallus.

Sweat began to slick Reek’s body with the effort of maintaining the erratic tempo. The stool became sticky from where his flesh slapped against it. His chest heaved. His lungs and throat burned. He was raw from one end to the other, like the phallus was impaling him all the way through. An eternally hardened cock that could never spend or go soft, that could never grow tired, even as Reek spent himself on the wretched thing. 

Eventually, he just couldn’t do it anymore. It was his legs that finally gave out, going slack under him. He lolled forward in place, panting heavily. As he struggled to draw in breath, he peered out through sweat-soaked bangs. The shadows in the room had stretched quite far. How long had they been performing this odd song?

“Why have you stopped, Reek?” Ramsay asked, and Reek heard the slap of leather against his master’s palm.

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” he heaved. God, his throat hurt almost as much as his ass. “I need…” _To rest._ “I need your cock.”

“Oh?” The boots weren’t tapping out a rhythm now, but drawing closer. Shivers ran up Reek’s back.

“Yes,” he gasped in response. “I can’t—I need— _you_! Please, Master. Don’t make me sit here anymore. I need you. Only you.”

Ramsay came around in front of him, smiling impishly. “You’re always so sweet when you ask for it,” he said, running his hand along Reek’s cheek, so gentle where he had been rough before. “That wooden cock isn’t enough for you, is it?”

Reek shook his head, jingling the bells.

Ramsay let out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. You can have my cock. Will that sate you?”

“Yes, Master.” Reek nodded in genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Master.”

“Then come.”

He felt immense relief as he rose, as the phallus slid fully out of him. He didn’t dare look down to see what he’d left behind. His legs buckled as he made his way to join his master on the bed. He climbed onto the mattress, bells rattling.

“Leave this on.” Ramsay pulled Reek into his lap and brushed his knuckles along the collar. “No more wandering while we make love. You’re going to ride me tonight, Reek, and I want to hear these bells _ring_.”


	13. Biding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zing said: 
> 
> _For a request, I would love a version of the scene in the show where Ramsay’s boys are going to rape Theon after his attempted escape. Ramsay seems like he’s going to stop them, but instead he watches his boys take Theon, before joining in himself._
> 
> I hope I captured the spirit of your request well enough. This is my interpretation of Ramsay's relationship to his "boys" in the show verse.

Despite his reputation, Ramsay wasn’t really a “planner.” It was just that he had ideas, and he was very good at making those ideas manifest.

He had let Greyjoy go because he’d had an idea. Now, as he dismounted his horse and crept towards the scuffling noises where his men had pinned Greyjoy down, he still wasn’t sure exactly _how_ his idea was going to manifest. It could go one of two ways, really, but he just hadn’t _decided_ yet.

Greyjoy’s whimpering and fussing masked Ramsay’s footsteps as he approached and peered out from behind the trees. None of them were aware of him. Most of his men even had their backs turned to him. Ramsay held his bow nocked loosely in his hands. He couldn’t deny it might be rewarding to shoot arrows into their backs, teach them a lesson about cockiness. And then he could draw out this game he’d created for Greyjoy, and how fun would that be? To step in and play the role of the savior, the protector. How grateful Greyjoy would be then.

“Take off ‘is pants,” the leader of the brigade said—Ramsay thought maybe his name was Karl or something like that. He reached for the ties of his own pants. “I’m gonna _fuck_ you into the dirt.”

“No, no, please.” Greyjoy’s pleas rang pitifully through the woods as the men flipped him over and pressed him down into the dirt.

Ramsay drummed his fingers on the shaft of his bow, thinking. The men were shimmying Greyjoy’s pants down around his thighs, revealing the curve of his ass as he bucked and struggled and begged. His begging really was quite lovely. Ramsay had to make a decision.

On the one hand, Greyjoy would be more grateful—and therefore more compliant—if Ramsay stepped in and saved him now. But on the other hand, the noises coming out of him as he struggled really were doing something to Ramsay.

It…wouldn’t hurt to let the men have their fun, just for a little bit.

He lowered his bow and braced himself against the tree and watched as the leader pulled out his dick and climbed on top of Greyjoy. Greyjoy was pleading a string of, “No, no, no, no,” right up until the man pushed into him, and then he cried out like a wounded animal. Ramsay’s own dick stirred.

Greyjoy writhed around in the dirt while the other men held him down. His legs kicked out but only scattered leaves and pine needles. His hands curled into fists as the man on his back began pumping his hips.

“You like that?” the man grunted, with absolute disdain dripping from his voice. “You like that, you little shit?”

“Please,” Greyjoy keened in response.

“Please?” The man snapped his hips, burying himself balls-deep. Greyjoy howled. “Is that it? Is that how you like it?”

“No,” Greyjoy whined. His voice was muffled into the ground. “Please…stop.”

Ramsay couldn’t see his face and immediately decided he needed to rectify that. He needed to see Greyjoy’s face as he begged. His voice was wet and thick like he was crying, and Ramsay _needed_ to see that. He crept closer.

He made a wide arc around, but he needn’t have bothered. No one noticed him, or was in a position to notice him. The two men they had nominally left on lookout were more interested in watching Greyjoy being fucked. Ramsay’s hand tightened around his bow again. Perhaps he should kill them right here and now, just to teach them a lesson about letting their guard down.

Greyjoy was still struggling, still making those beautiful little noises. As Ramsay drew nearer, he caught a flash of his face. Yes, he was crying. Lips drawn back around clenched teeth, chin quivering. Face wet with tears and snot, strands of saliva dripping from his mouth. He was breathtaking in his pain.

Ramsay’s heart beat faster. His blood pumped. And he made another decision.

“Enjoying yourself?”

As one, the brigade whipped around, the two guards drawing their weapons. The three men holding Greyjoy down just grimaced. The man inside Greyjoy even pulled out and made an attempt to cover himself, but Ramsay held up a hand to stay him.

“No, no, you don’t need to stop on my account.”

The man eyed him mistrustfully. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asked, and Ramsay did _not_ appreciate the disdain in his voice. Underneath him, Greyjoy continued to whine and squirm.

“I’m just keeping an eye on things,” Ramsay replied with a smile. “As the _acting lord_ of the Dreadfort, the Dreadfort’s interests are _my_ interests, after all.”

The man’s shoulders tensed.

“You’ve done a lovely job tracking down the prisoner,” Ramsay continued.

“This is what we do to runaways,” one of the men holding Greyjoy said defensively. “Keeps ‘em from getting ideas ‘bout escaping in their heads.”

“Oh yes, I quite agree.” Ramsay gestured to Greyjoy. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”

The lead man frowned in obvious skepticism.

“I don’t mind at all,” Ramsay said to the unspoken question. He set the end of his bow against the ground, taking a relaxed stance. “In fact, I like to watch.”

Something like distaste crossed the man’s face, perhaps even concern. But he hesitantly turned back to Greyjoy and pulled his dick out again.

“No, please!” Greyjoy cried. If he thought he’d been rescued, he was sorely mistaken. He screamed as the man reentered him. The look on his face in that instant… Ramsay was undeniably hard now.

The man set a harsh and brutal pace. It wasn’t about his pleasure at all, but rather punishing his prisoner. He probably didn’t realize it could be both, Ramsay mused. A shame, that, how small-minded some men could be.

He spent quickly and sloppily, gripping Greyjoy’s hair and forcing his face down into the dirt. He was out of breath as he dismounted and refused to make eye contact with Ramsay as he stood and tucked himself back into his pants.

“Is that all?” Ramsay asked.

The other men looked at him like they didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I mean, he can take more, don’t you think?” Ramsay took a step forward. “He _should_ take more. How about you?” He motioned to one of the men pinning Greyjoy’s arm. “Don’t you want to have a go at him?”

The man’s face went pale and he balked. “I, er…”

“You were going to, weren’t you? Before I showed up, that is.” Ramsay took another step forward, pausing to lean his bow against a tree. He wouldn’t be needing it. Not to deal with this lot. “I may be acting lord of the Dreadfort, but that doesn’t mean you need to change anything on my behalf.” He motioned again to Greyjoy, who was making strangled little gurgling noises in the back of his throat. “Go on. Teach him what we do to runaways around here.”

The man looked to his companions, as if they would help him out. “I don’t…er…”

“Can’t get it up?” Ramsay asked, smiling sweetly.

The man’s face went red, but he wouldn’t do anything. None of them would dare.

“Well, then, I hope you don’t mind me cutting in line...” Ramsay began a steady stroll forward, unlacing his breeches. “…seeing as you’re experiencing performance issues.”

The man who had just finished scrambled out of the way, allowing Ramsay access to their prey. He had left a mess behind—seed and blood trickling down Greyjoy’s pale thighs, his hole puffy and an angry shade of red. Greyjoy mewled as Ramsay knelt over him. Gods, he was already rock hard, but hearing those noises, feeling the body wriggling under him. Ramsay bit back a groan.

This wasn’t necessarily the picture he’d had in mind when he’d let Greyjoy go. But that’s why you had to keep your options open. Because if you got too caught up in the _plan_ , you missed out on the little joys in life. Like the way Greyjoy’s screams echoed through the woods when Ramsay pushed into him.

Music to the ears.


	14. Creaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> illusionaryatron asked: 
> 
> _Could I request a sequel for[Sneaking'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323159/chapters/56056975)? I'd love it if Ramsay was trying to spy on Theon, thinking he was an arrogant highborn idiot, but in the end he's caught and he has to beg Theon for his life yet again. But this time just a blowjob won't do it ;)_
> 
> This one's a little on the shorter side, but I promise it's still packed with lots of love. ;)

Ramsay gritted his teeth. Lord Greyjoy may have thought spit was enough to ease his dick in with, but the truth was…it wasn’t. Not even close. Of course, Ramsay might even have appreciated it—in the way one sadist appreciates another’s work—if the goal had been to make it as unpleasant as possible. But from the way Greyjoy was whispering hotly into his ear as he slid in, he truly thought he was an expert lovemaker.

“Mmmm…you like that, don’t you?”

For the first time in his life, Ramsay felt something akin to sympathy…and it was for every girl Theon Greyjoy had ever bedded.

He moved roughly inside of Ramsay, sheathing himself fully. Ramsay felt every inch, the rough, dry dragging against his insides. The stretching of his hole. The fullness, like he had to take a rather urgent shit.

“You like it,” Greyjoy hissed. He licked the shell of Ramsay’s ear, and Ramsay shuddered in revulsion, glad Greyjoy couldn’t see his face. “You like having my big, lordly cock up your peasant ass, don’t you?”

“Y…yes, m’lord,” Ramsay ground out, clenching fistfuls of sheets in his hands.

Greyjoy made a pleased noise and began rocking his hips. The mattress was softer than anything Ramsay had spent the first half of his life sleeping on. It dipped beneath their combined weight as Greyjoy pounded into him.

Ramsay kept his jaw clamped firmly closed. Any noises he made would be interpreted as pleasure, and he wouldn’t give Greyjoy the satisfaction. Not that it stopped him.

“You like it,” he repeated, hands rough in Ramsay’s hair. “You like being useful to your liege lord, don’t you? You like my lordly cock filling you up. Tell me, did your fellow farmhands ever fuck you this well?”

“No, m’lord,” Ramsay answered obediently. Because even though he didn’t want to let Greyjoy win, he still knew the nature of the game they were playing. Greyjoy didn’t need an excuse to have him executed, and he would easily throw him away if he was displeased.

In a sudden spark of inspiration, Greyjoy buried his nose against the side of Ramsay’s neck and sucked on his skin in timing with his thrusts.

Ramsay gripped the sheets harder. It was a game, alright, but not one he intended to play forever. Greyjoy might be delusional enough to think he was holding on to Winterfell, but somewhere in his twisted little head he had to know it was over. It was a dead man who was fucking him; Greyjoy just didn’t know he was already dead.

“Mmmm,” Greyjoy moaned as he pulled back, pausing to deliver a sharp bite to the area he’d been sucking. That drew a yelp from Ramsay—more of surprise than of pain, and he immediately felt shame as Greyjoy’s chuckle rumbled where his chest was pressed against Ramsay’s back. “So good for me, Lord Farmhand. You like being good for me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“My good, loyal little peasant, serving his liege lord.” Greyjoy’s pace had become punishingly irregular. “You came here to serve me, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Ramsay agreed.

“Did you picture yourself serving me like this?” His hand tangled in Ramsay’s hair, yanked his head back. “Maybe you even hoped. Hoped I would fuck a little peasant like you. Bless you with my lordly cock.”

Gods, he needed to shut up. Ramsay truly, deeply felt sorry for the girls who’d had to hear this man’s incessant blathering while he hammered at them like a clumsy blacksmith tending his anvil.

“Good for me, so good for me. Loyal. My loyal subject. My loyal…”

He was muttering to himself now. Meaningless drivel.

His hips took on a frenetic pace, for perhaps five or six thrusts, and then he slammed in and held. Ramsay felt Greyjoy spilling inside, warm and thick. His stomach churned at being claimed in such a base way.

Greyjoy groaned while he let it all out, then collapsed on top of Ramsay, panting heavily in his ear. His skin was sweaty and slick against Ramsay’s. Burning hot. And his breath was wet against Ramsay’s ears. “So…good…”

After a moment or two, he rolled off and collapsed bonelessly on the bed. For a man so in the thrall of paranoia, he certainly fell asleep fast enough.

Wincing, Ramsay rolled over as well, feeling Greyjoy’s seed dribbling out. His insides felt all shredded up, like he’d been fucked by a meat tenderizer, but it could be much worse. Yes, it could always be much worse. He considered cleaning himself with the blankets, but then decided it was too much effort. Instead, he scooted over to the cooler side of the mattress, and lay there, watching the room. Greyjoy might feel secure enough to sleep, but Ramsay had no such intentions.

Outside, a full moon cast light through the window, into the room where Eddard Stark had once ruled the North from. There was something a little novel about that. Being fucked in the Warden of the North’s own bed while the very man’s head decorated the walls down in King’s Landing. And when Robb Stark returned, Ramsay could say he’d been fucked in a king’s bed as well.

Not that he would ever say. He’d cut out the tongue of every man who knew exactly what he’d done to gain Theon Greyjoy’s favor. And Greyjoy himself…oh, what he had planned for Greyjoy when their game had finally ended.

And make no mistake—the game _would_ end, and Ramsay _would_ be the winner. He may have been reckless in his sneaking, but he certainly hadn’t set out alone. To take back Winterfell, as his father had instructed? What fool tried to take Winterfell alone, or with only a handful of men? No, Ramsay may have been caught, but reinforcements were coming. And soon.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded. One long, brassy note on a rusted trumpet.

Ramsay grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your prompts. Check back in in about a week or two. I may be opening requests again then.


	15. Envying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special bonus fill. Nanjcsy (aka Nanners) had a prompt: 
> 
> _I have always believed the pets are as dangerous as the masters. jealousy can be an awful thing. i always thought when reek killed myranda, he did NOT just do it to save Sansa. He did it because myranda was the only person really in the way. i was wondering if you could explore reek and myranda's jealousy for each other, to each be the "Good, Loyal" sexual vice and confidant that ramsay needed. and how dangerous can jealous pets be perhaps?_

“What I want to know…” Ramsay gripped Reek’s hair and wrenched his neck over the back of the chair. “…is _why_.”

Reek looked up at his master. His head was still a little foggy from being dragged through the snow on a horse.

Ramsay gave him a rough shake. “ _Why_ did you kill Myranda? _Why_ did you steal my bride? _Why_ did you _run away from me_ , Reek?”

Reek blinked. “Why…?”

* * *

_She_ had grabbed his hair too. Not long after he’d been reborn.

She’d come into his cell and grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up. He was terrified of her, back then. Myranda’s presence always meant pain. He didn’t see her that often, but whenever he did, she was always by Ramsay’s side. Clinging to his arm. Giggling.

She wasn’t giggling now. The frown lines of her face made her ugly in the dimness of the cell. And her voice was like something that lived under a damp rock. “You’re not special, you know.”

Reek _didn’t_ know. He just stared at her, open-mouthed.

Luckily, Myranda didn’t seem to expect him to talk. “He’ll get tired of you, just like the others,” she hissed, and her grip on his hair became so tight that it forced tears in the corners of his eyes. “Then he’ll get rid of you. He probably won’t even hunt you. Knows you’re too crippled to give us a good chase. He’ll probably just slit your throat and feed you to the hounds. _I’m_ the kennel master’s daughter, don’t you know?”

“Oh,” was all Reek said. He didn’t even know which part he’d said “oh” too. All of it, maybe.

“I’ll help him cut up your body,” she went on. “I’ll be glad when you’re gone. Then I won’t have to listen to him _talk_ about you.”

Reek had no idea what she was talking about. “Reek is loyal,” he said, because that seemed like the safest thing to say. “Good Reek, loyal Reek.”

Myranda’s lip twisted and she released her hold on him. He wasn’t expecting it, and he fell bonelessly to the ground. His chin bounced off the stone. The taste of copper flooded his mouth.

“He doesn’t _need_ you,” Myranda said as she stood and dusted off her skirt. “Not like he needs me.”

***

Reek didn’t understand why she’d come just to tell him that. Not until much later.

Not until he’d spent the night in his master’s bed for the first time. Ramsay could be kind at times. If Reek was good enough. Reek remembered thinking he must have been _very_ good to sleep in a real bed, like a person. Either that or it was part of some cruel new joke.

Which was his first thought when he was awoken by a loud screeching. “What is _he_ doing here!?”

He bolted up, prepared for his punishment—the punishment for thinking he was good enough and worthy enough to sleep in any bed, let alone his master’s. He flinched as Myranda came flying at him from the foot of the bed. To his sleep-muddled brain, she looked like some bog hag, her hair tangled and wild, eyes wide. Teeth bared.

He flinched, but felt a strong arm around his shoulder, drawing him against a warm body. His master. His master was protecting him. It seemed ludicrous in the moment, but he felt it was true. Ramsay was putting himself between his Reek and that awful bog hag.

“The better question is, what are _you_ doing here?” Ramsay’s voice was low and dangerous as he addressed Myranda.

Myranda perched herself on the headboard, lips drawn back over her teeth. “I thought we agreed that that _thing_ would stay in the kennels. I refuse to fuck you in a bed where its _filth_ has been.”

Ramsay sat up, still holding Reek to him. His bare skin was warm and comforting. Reek buried his face against it. “What’s this ‘we’ nonsense you keep insisting on?” Ramsay asked, a warning smile on his face. “ _We_ didn’t agree on anything. _I_ make the decisions around here, Myranda. That means _I_ decide who I fuck, and when and where.”

Her nostrils flared. Master must truly care for her. If Reek had continued to carry on like that, Master would have taken strips out of his hide.

“Now…” Ramsay said, a final warning in his voice. He really was being very lenient with her. She had to know it. “Get out of my room. I’ll call you if I want to see you.”

Her face was red, almost purple. Reek wondered how he could ever have thought she was pretty.

“ _Now_ , Myranda.”

Her jaw worked up and down, but no words came out. She was angry. But she couldn’t do anything about it. Master might care for her, but she was beholden to his wishes as much as Reek was. And more importantly, Ramsay would protect Reek from her.

Reek suddenly felt quite powerful. And safe. With Ramsay’s arm around him, shielding him from that woman. He was stricken with a wild sense of recklessness, and he laid his arm on top of Ramsay’s and leaned his cheek against Master’s chest. And _smiled_ at Myranda.

Her back went rigid, and for a second Reek wondered if she would attack him. He wasn’t worried. He knew Ramsay would protect him if she did.

But in the end she didn’t. She just hissed at him, like a cat, and stormed out of the room.

“Pay her no mind,” Ramsay said, drawing Reek more fully against him.

“I won’t, m’lord.”

***

Obviously Myranda remembered the incident, because a few weeks later, she cornered Reek in the kennels and pushed him roughly up against the wall. There was a dagger in her hand, and she pressed it up against the underside of Reek’s jaw.

“You’re not special,” she said, just like she’d said in the cell that day. “You’re a dog. A filthy, disgusting dog. You give him some amusement, sure, but you don’t know him like I do. You can’t give him what I can give him.”

Reek met her gaze. She wouldn’t kill him. They both knew it. “What have you _ever_ given him?”

Her mouth fell open, like she hadn’t expected him to say anything. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” She dug the knife in harder. “Look at you, then look at me. You’re his whipped little lapdog. _I’m_ going to be his wife.”

Is that what she thought? She didn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

“You want Ramsay to give you a name too,” he stated with sudden clarity. “Just like he gave _me_ a name.”

Her brows pinched together in confusion.

“Reek,” he went on. “Like stinking meat. Master gave me that name. He named me, and then _I_ named _him_.”

She shoved him back even harder against the stones of the kennel. “What are you on about?”

“When I gave him Moat Cailen,” Reek explained. “Master became Ramsay Bolton _because_ I gave him Moat Cailen. I gave him the thing he wanted most. Something you never could.”

The knife trembled in her hand. “I could kill you now. I could slit your throat and feed you to the dogs. I’d tell Ramsay you ran away. He’d believe me.”

“No,” Reek said. “He wouldn’t.”

She gritted her teeth, then pulled back, releasing him from her grip. “I’ll be rid of you one day,” she said. “One day, some opportunity will present itself, and then _dear Reek_ will meet with an accident.” She sheathed her little dagger in the fold of her cloak. “Watch your back.”

Reek watched her go, thinking, _You should watch yours_.

* * *

“Why…?” Reek repeated, neck craned over the back of the chair, staring up at his master.

“Yes. Why did you kill Myranda, steal my bride, and run away from me?”

Reek smiled. “I never ran from you, Master. Reek is good and loyal. Reek came back to you.”

There was a sharp smack, and Reek tasted blood in his mouth as his head whipped to the side.

“Good and loyal?” Ramsay scoffed. “Does a _good and loyal_ pet help my bride escape? Does he murder my servants?”

“He does if it’s for the right reasons.”

“Oh, is that right?” Master’s face was inches from his own now. Reek could feel the warmth of him, after trudging through the snow with Sansa.

Yes, he’d helped her to escape, because he felt sorry for her. He did. There were easier ways he could have been rid of her, certainly. But she hadn’t wanted Master’s attention. Not yet, at any rate. Reek understood. He’d been the same at first, before Master had given him his new name. But he’d given Sansa a new name too—Sansa Bolton—and it was only a matter of time before she came to understand Master’s warmth as well, to understand the comfort and protection in it. And so…he’d helped her escape, when she’d still wanted to escape. He’d helped her and she’d run on her own. And judging from Ramsay’s anger, she’d not been found yet. Which meant she wasn’t likely to be found.

Reek smiled at that, felt the blood dribbling down his lip.

“You are awfully pleased with yourself, aren’t you, Reek?”

“I am,” Reek answered. He could never lie to Master. Even if he wanted to. “I ran away to help Lady Sansa escape. And I helped Lady Sansa escape for the same reason I killed Myranda.”

Ramsay’s lips were a hairsbreadth from his own. His breath was low and husky, the way it was when he held Reek close in bed and whispered what a good dog he was into his ear. “And what reason is that?”

“Because you don’t need them.” Reek blinked through tears of gratitude. “ _We_ don’t need them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are still closed. I have a few overfills from last round that I'll be working on shortly, and then reopening for a few more prompts.


	16. Relighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DavrosFan3 asked for: 
> 
> _A prequel to[Lighting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442651/chapters/59030947#workskin) explaining how Theon/Reek was reclaimed by Ramsay and where Roose is and how he became king in the north and Reek/theons thought process that led to him sacrificing himself……..maybe visions from the lord of light or simply watching his master sleep and realizing he must allow him to live and spare the world from icy oblivion. I suppose a character peice showing how his will asserted itself to overcome his conditioning (If it’s set in the show continuity [ my preferred version] did theon and sansa escape earlier before Melisandre left stannis so she saw theon while at the camp. So what happened to the north uniting against him or did Jon never rise again in this timeline_
> 
> This is one of my overflow prompts from last round. Sorry it's a little on the shorter side. In addition to stream-of-consciousness, I also have issues sustaining background-heavy bits. But hopefully there's still a lot of Thramsay goodness packed in.

Reek lay with his head on the pillow—itself a grand luxury—watching his master sleep. The gentle rise and fall of his bare chest. The furs and their combined body heat warded off the bitter chill. Reek wondered for how much longer.

Winter was coming. Winter was inevitable. In the same way Ramsay, himself, was inevitable.

No matter how hard Reek tried, every path returned him here, to this place and this man. In many ways, it was a relief to be back in Ramsay’s “care.” At least he knew what his master expected of him. He knew his place here.

There had been a little time of freedom, and it had been terrifying. The outside world had descended into madness. He’d seen it himself when he and Lady Sansa had arrived at the Wall. There were monsters out there…monsters with glowing blue eyes, and an army of corpses. Theon hadn’t seen any of these monsters for himself, but he’d seen the faces of the men and women who had, and he recognized the look in their eyes. People who had come face to face with real monsters had a _look_ to them. It was unmistakable.

But beyond the monsters, the world was still terrifying.

They had arrived at the Wall with the help of Ser Brienne and her squire. Jon Snow had received them, even thanked Reek for rescuing Lady Sansa and offered him a grudging forgiveness, though there was still resentment in his eyes. Resentment at Theon Greyjoy.

In the following days, it had become clearer and clearer that there was no real place for Theon Greyjoy anymore. Not at the Wall. Not on Pyke—he couldn’t imagine Yara would welcome him back, not after…

And so he’d stayed on, as Lady Sansa’s companion. Her pet.

She was kind to accept his company, but she had no true use for Theon Greyjoy either. He could not fight for her, could not help her reclaim Winterfell. He could only stay by her side, in her tent, as what would come to be known as the Battle of Bastards was waged.

And when news had come that Jon Snow had fallen in battle, she’d handed him a bone-handled knife. “Please.” Her face was desperate. “Make it quick, Theon.”

He’d held the knife, knowing what she’d wanted from him but refusing to acknowledge it. “We can still run, my lady.”

She shook her head. “There’s nowhere to run. Not for me.” She wrapped her hand around his, to keep him from dropping the knife. “I _can’t_ go back, Theon. _Please_.” Her eyes said more than any words ever could. _If I’m going to die, let it happen while there’s still some of me left._ In that instant, he pulled his resolve together.

He was still holding the bloodied knife in his hand when his master arrived. Threw back the tent flap and looked at Lady Sansa’s body, laid out on her pallet. As if she were sleeping. Only sleeping.

“Guess she had bigger balls than you as well, Reek,” he said flatly.

Reek flinched. “I guess.” Though he wasn’t certain it was cowardice that had kept him from plunging the dagger into his own heart. It had been quick for Sansa; he could make it quick for himself as well. But _something_ had stayed his hand. He just couldn’t say what it was.

Ramsay breathed in through his nose. “Well…I suppose I won’t be needing her anymore in any case. The Warden of the North shouldn’t have trouble finding a new bride.”

“No, m’lord,” Reek agreed.

His master leaned down and held out a hand. “Shall we go home now, Reek?”

Reek had let the knife fall from his grasp, then, and taken his master’s hand.

He’d been lucky to be welcomed back so quickly. Ramsay had punished him, of course, but not as much as Reek had been expecting. He kept Reek by his side at all times, alone or out in the open for everyone to see—meetings with his vassals, hearing his subjects, the feast they threw in commemoration of Ramsay’s victory (though they could hardly afford the food with winter bearing inevitably down on them). Reek was always there, sitting or lying on the floor at his master’s feet. Sometimes fingers would brush through his matted hair, as if Ramsay were reminding himself that his pet was still there.

A few days after their return to Winterfell, Ramsay’s men found the Red Woman wandering in the field of corpses. Reek had never seen her but had heard much about her at the Wall. Seeing her for the first time, when she had been brought before Ramsay, had inspired a terror in him not wholly unlike what he felt in his own master’s presence. There was an aura about her, an energy…

Inevitability. That’s what it was.

When she said Ramsay was Azor Ahai reborn, and that he needed to kill Reek to save the world from the monsters beyond the Wall…it all fit into place. Like an impossibly tailored glove. The reason he hadn’t turned the knife on himself in that tent. The reason there was no place for him anywhere in the outside world—only at his master’s side. It fit.

Ramsay didn’t see it. He’d laughed in the Red Woman’s face, denied it. Dragged Reek back to his bedroom and fucked him with a tenderness Reek had genuinely thought him incapable of. Caressing his face, whispering, “Mine, you’re mine,” into Reek’s ear with every thrust.

Reek listened to his master’s sleep-evened breath now, watched the slight twitching of his eyes beneath his lids. Slowly, Reek reached out a hand and caressed his face. Felt the stubble on his cheek. Ramsay stirred and shifted, but didn’t wake.

Ramsay was inevitable. It had always been inevitable that Reek would end up under his care. Escape had been a fool’s errand. Because Ramsay was inevitable, just like his fate as savior of the world was inevitable. The Red Woman knew it. Reek knew it. Perhaps deep down even Ramsay knew it. It had all been planned from the start.

And that meant there was a use for Reek yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are closed at the moment. Thank you for all your prompts.


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